Ready for You
by The Versatile Scarf
Summary: MultiChapter // When Mark returns after years of absense... How will he be welcomed back, if at all? // Slash MarkRoger // Chapter Sixteen up 8/28
1. Prologue

Ready For You

By The Versatile Scarf

Prologue

A/N: Well, seeing as Visits is through with and my fluff muse has thus departed, it's time to get started on this. I don't own RENT, nor the Hoobastank song. In fact, it's not even being used in here.. It just gave my inspiration. Thank-you inspiration. Yee-haw.

x-x-x-x-x

It was.. fitting, that today was the first day of Fall. Or so the calendars and news stations all said, amidst stories of crimes and full moons and scattered holidays that meant little to anyone in America anyway. To him, every bad day felt like Fall, no matter how scorching hot or absolutely beautiful any one moment was. If something was wrong within his world of music and friends, it had the air of the cooler months, but not the ones that froze him to the bone. Even those were full of beauty and warmth. Angel, Mimi, Collins.. So full of love.. they'd all come to him in Winter and filled his heart with a joy that was unmeasurable. A joy so -great- and so -powerful- that he nearly had to scream from the power of it.

But then there was Fall. There were those indecisive months during which one day could be as cold and the coldest day in Winter and the next could be a pleasant Spring climate. Fall, when Angel had first left them. The next Fall, when Mimi had finally lost the battle with her disease and gone out smiling, her petite fingers wrapped tightly around his hand, her smile brilliant but pained. She was lucid until the very end, and even the lesions surrounding her gorgeous eyes did nothing to dull her beauty. And now.. two years after the day he'd left for Sante Fe, almost to the date. Halloween was in four days. The day Angel died would be tomorrow. Mimi had passed two weeks ago, last year.

Now, another of them was leaving.

And it infuriated him.

He sat upon the windowsill, forehead pressed against the glass, gaze panning over what he could see of the city of New York, hating the horizon. The sun sets in the West. Was the other following the sun? Would he catch it? Would he -find- what he was looking for?

The musician scoffed, a portion of his lips coming detached and pulling upward, revealing teeth, sneering at the grey city. The day was absolutely humid, only adding to the suffocation his droughty mouth was offering. Each breath was rattling, reminding him of an asthmatic person in the middle of an attack. He'd lived around his roommate long enough to know what one sounded like, anyway.

His roommate. His fucking roommate.

_"... what do you mean you're _leaving

_"Just what I said. I have to leave."_

_"... I won't be here when you come back."_

It had been more of a threat than a promise, but the implications of the statement hung in the silence until the door slid shut with a resounding clank, leaving one of them alone with his thoughts while the other escaped, escaped from whatever was chasing him. He'd had the look of a hunted animal, but his best friend hadn't noticed. Hadn't noticed until today, when he caught the flash in ice blue eyes when he questioned just -why- the suitcase was being packed.

"I won't be here, Mark. ... I _won't._"

And Fall enveloped Roger Davis in a blanket of mock comfort, tendrils of diminished hope running lightly through his hair in the guise of his fingers, and he wished for nothing more than to be able to throw everything away and start over.

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: It's short, but it needed to be put up.


	2. Chapter 1

Ready For You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter One

A/N: Wooo. Thank-you for your reviews and what-not. They were exciting and told me 'write more faster!' So, very unlike me.. I did. Hooray for me. Thank-you for your support, blah blah, and your review of Visits to You. My pet piece, heh. ... -blatant advertising- You should apparently go read it. Oh, and there's another story.. 'Good for Something' that made me go ".. hey." because it reminds me of Visits and now I'm rambling. Here, I'll let you go to read the story.

x-x-x-x-x

in my darkness where are you now

It was Spring. The snow was slowly, slowly, slowly dripping away from the rebirth of a hypothetical new year and the sun was making an appearance after its long hibernation behind the thick grey clouds that obscured any blue from the dreary inhabitants of New York City, New York. Everything seemed to be emerging from a long sleep, despite the busy streets' activity not having lessened any during the last three months. In fact, it hadn't lessened any since he'd begun living here, and it hadn't changed within the three years he'd been gone. Three years, three months, thirteen days and four hours. Though the sun had reemerged from its long sleep, the exertion of remaining up as long as it had finally took its toll, and night was falling upon the restless city.

The taxi careened through the crowded streets as well as it could through the blaring horns and obscene gestures, the driver merely returning each one tenfold with a sort of self-satisfied sneer before he glanced into his rear view mirror at his passenger. The sneer immediately disappeared, replaced by the most loathsome expression a man could muster for someone who was paying him the cab fair from the airport to some old loft off of Avenue B.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The whirring of machinery immediately clicked off, and the man hidden behind it immediately seemed to curl within himself, holding the camera to his stomach.

"Sorry.. Habit, I guess you c-could say.." Blue eyes immediately flickered away from the reflection of the driver's face in the rear-view mirror and down to the camera in his hands, pale fingers running lightly along the boxy shell, saying nothing more to his defense. The snort from the front seat told him that the conversation was over. Of course, it could have also been the muttering of something along the lines of 'fucking lunatics' that ended the conversation, but Mark preferred to believe that it was the former. It made him feel better about himself.

_So fucking self-righteous, aren't you? A fucking martyr._ His eyes squeezed shut and a hand came away from the camera to rub at his temple, jaw clenching tightly as a shooting pain sliced through his head, starting just above his left eye and ending at the area above his head. Another of those sudden, mind-splitting headaches. The doctor had prescribed a medication that had run out months ago, explaining that they were probably caused by staring through a camera and at a projection screen and that he should take one of these whenever he felt stressed.

That had been California, hadn't it? The five months he'd spent in Hollywood, struggling and struggling and feeling like a sellout all the while before finally packing it all in and buying the next bus ticket to anywhere.

He hadn't boarded that bus. The irony of it had been far too numbing. Santa Fe. Santa Fucking Fe. He'd stood at the door of the bus, conflicted and clutching the ticket, quiet laughter wracking his form so hard he was nearly trembling. After five minutes, the people standing behind him finally just slipped around the scrawny, pale, bespectacled man with only a camera bag and a suitcase to his name, fearful of the downcast, intense gaze, the strained posture and the white knuckles.

Needless to say, he'd turned on his heel and walked back to the ticket kiosk, begging to exchange his ticket for the soonest bus _after_ this one, and he'd received a ticket to Nevada. Somewhere warm, but with an entire state between it and New Mexico.

His lack of money at that time made it hard to comprehend just how he'd managed to scrounge up enough for the plane ticket home, but he'd managed. Somehow, most likely through self-starvation, he'd made it back to New York, unaccustomed to the cold after living in such warm climates for nearly a year. California and Nevada.. and then New Mexico and to the airport nearest Santa Fe, following Roger's footsteps as best he could.

Three years, three months, thirteen days and four hours.

The Cat Scratch Club's lights blared into the cab as he passed, and though his eyes remained glued on the sign, he felt his stomach give an unsettling lurch.

"You into that sort of shit?" A pause. ".. Heh, me too. And that's one of the best places around town. Had the best girls since eighty-seven."

Bile rose in his throat.

"I'd check it out when you get the chance. Something you shouldn't miss." The cab rounded the corner and he swallowed hard, the pressure at the back of his throat dissipating but only causing a discomfort in his stomach, which he attempted to soothe with the calming touch of his hand.

Only to find that his hand was shaking like a leaf.

"Well, here we are. Home sweet home.. I guess. That'll be--" But the man had already leapt from the cab, leaving two twenty-dollar bills in his place, and thus left the cab driver's life for good. The slamming of the door was his cue to continue forward, and he drove speedily away, searching for the next sucker. It was only six o'clock, but light was fading fast. People would be wanting to get off of the streets, and he would reap the benefits.

Six o' clock.

Three years, three months, thirteen days and four hours.

His throat constricted as he mounted the staircase, the cold seeping in past his worn jacket and slightly haggard scarf. That same scarf. A gift from Roger, after he'd once complained about having outgrown his old, warm jacket and nearly freezing his ass off while filming.

Roger...

The sound of footfalls increased in its pace, a metallic ringing filling the seemingly abandoned(but he knew better) building, his rate of breath rising and rising until he was nearly hyperventilating, clutching his bags and camera tightly to him. Mimi's floor was surpassed without a second thought, and there, there, was that hideous green, sliding door that he'd come to hate and love and dream about and loathe and mourn all within the same instance. The door to which he'd kept the key all these three years, three months, thirteen days and four hours. The key he'd stared at during the plane ride, holding it in his hands and wondering just what it meant. Just what it signified. And what this entire situation, from the plane to the loft, would mean.

Without knocking he slid the key into the lock, turning it to the right, pausing, and then the left, smiling. Upside-down. A flaw. A flaw he remembered, and it filled him with a rush of joy.

And that rush of joy raced out of him just as fast when he opened the door.

Within the loft, it was as though time stood still. Absolute lifelessness resounded wildly. A paper lay spread out on the coffee table, lying open on a page of articles. A corner of the plastic covering the skylight had come unattached from the ceiling, and a bucket stood beneath it. Angel's pickle tub, he noticed with a start. It was filled to the brim with water, a lot of which had spilled over the side, creating a dark ring in the floor. Two mugs, empty, were on either side of the newspaper, which was beginning to curl at the edges. A once white sheet half-hung on the wall in front of his projector and a box full of old film reels, some of which lay scattered about the floor. The metal table was home to the hot plate his mother had sent him and the blanket they'd used to protect Mimi from the icy surface that Christmas Eve. Nothing spoke of leaving. Nothing spoke of living.

"... Roger?"

_I won't be here when you come back._

x-x-x-x-x

Feedback actually greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 2

Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Two

A/N: Seeing as my scrapbook is completed, Pride and Prejudice is read, and, presently, there are no other pressing matters, I can return to my writing. -Finally-. GOD YES. ... heh. Anyway.

x-x-x-x-x

_it's a long way down on this rollercoaster_

Emptiness.

Nothingness.

Time within the loft stood still, and he found he was unable to step forward and shatter the untouched atmosphere. His feet gained weight suddenly, effectively gluing him to the floor just inside the sliding green door. Where was he? Certainly he wasn't home--home was not an empty word, and this place... This place, though nearly overflowing with furniture, knick-knacks, personal belongings--proof of human life-- was most definitely empty.

"R.. Roger..?"

The hollow atmosphere swallowed his words hungrily, making the silence deafening, before regurgitating the echo so loudly, so powerfully, that the man nearly fell back and out of the loft. It was only by sheer force of will that he remained where he was, but even that had been buffeted by the sound. He was terrified by the stillness that followed, encompassing him, closing in..

There should have been the rustling of yesterday's newspaper as the resident anarchist turned the page, delighting in the idiocy that scrawled, ant-like, across the greying papers, turning the tips of his fingers coal black. There should have been a mildly out of tune guitar sounding the musician's frustration at yet another case of writer's block, an intermittent disease that plagued him alongside the one within his bloodstream, sucking away years with each day he lived. There should have been the occasional womanly screech as a rat scuttled across the floor, to which the men would respond with mocking laughter, soon joined by the woman's partner, dressed smartly amid a sea of hand-me-downs and thrift store models. There should have been a nasally, stereotypically Jewish voice blaring from the small.. black.. box...

The box.

Oh God.

The air of peace was mercilessly slaughtered as the suitcase and camerabag fell to the floor. Sneakered feet sent up clouds of dust with every running step they took, trembling hands clutching the camera against his heaving chest. When his shaking settled enough to allow for nearly-normal human behaviour, one hand reached out to the machine. The index finger uncurled from the fist it had been twisted into, running over the thick layer of dust and grime there. Smooth plastic met his fingertip for a large expanse, until... There! His eyes squeezed shut as he pulled his hand away, wiping frantically on his jeans, his expression twisting into one of extreme disgust, as though the dust were equivalent to sticking his entire hand into a bowl of human entrails.

Finally, he forced his eyes open, and his visage relaxed completely and immediately.

The blinking red light. A message.

With trembling fingers that missed the first two tries, he timidly hit the 'play' button.

_BEEP._

_"Mark? Honey? Where are you?? Last time we picked up the phone your roommate answered. Ralph... Rudolph... Roger!" _The note of triumph in the voice was undeniable. _"We just want to know where you are, sweety. It's been three months since you last answered the phone.. You tell that roommate of yours to be more civil next time! Telling me that you were an 'effing sellout' and then hanging up was very rude of him. Please call!!" _

_BEEP._

Three months. He would have been in.. Oregon by then. Seven-month stay in Oregon.

So. _That_ was what she'd meant by the fact that she never wanted to have to call the loft again. It would make sense.

If this message was still on the phone, though.. Had Roger and Collins really left by then? Had they given up on this place that quickly? It couldn't be. The four of them had scrounged to start renting. Completely, desperately, pulled their money and put it into the loft and its rent, blinded by their shared dreams and aspirations, and personally as well; Roger by his music and haze of cigarette smoke that he faced every gig he played, Collins by the cloud of marijuana remains that seemed to eternally encircle his head, Benny by a shade of green with dead presidents on it, and he himself by his camera.

Blinded, but _happy_.

_BEEP. _

_"Excuse the call, Mr. Collins, but this is Eric Wold from the clinic. We have your blood test results in, and would be extremely grateful if you could please give us a call or come for a visit as soon as you possibly can. Thank-you for your time."_

_BEEP. _

Clinic? Blood.. blood test? Mark felt his heart skip a beat, causing a breathing irregularity that simply continued as the machine continued.

_BEEP._

_"Hello Mr. Davis. This is Kate Chaplin, from the church. Please accept my condolences for your lost, but we really must discuss your method of payment. Someone needs to pay for the funeral and burial.."_ It was at that point that Mark lost consciousness. _".. We have had three more offers from one Benjamin Coffin, and have thus far respected your wishes that we not accept it, but you must understand that the cost is not nothing. Please give us a call as soon as you can."_

_BEEP._

_"Roger, it's me. I've been trying to get ahold of you for days. Answer your phone once in a while. ... look, I forced the church to take payment. You can't just do that. It may be a holy ceremony, but it sure as fuck isn't free."_ A pause. _".. Maureen and Joanne left this morning. Their offer still stands, as does mine. Alison made up the guest bedroom--you'd be able to stay for as long as you need to. Just.. let me know."_

_BEEP. _

_"Roger! It's me, Maureen. As if you couldn't guess, hehe. Joanne just wanted me to call and tell you that we'll be at the airport when you get here! .. God, Roger. It's so beautiful here. I'm sure you'll love it. New York is nice, but.. oh, you'll just have to see it!_

_BEEP. _

_"All right, I'm on my way to pick you up. Make sure you have _all _of your bags. We're already running late for your flight. As per your request, the electricity will be paid for until your return. You damn well better pay me back, Davis, I swear to God. .. all right, I'll be there in twenty. Don't forget your tickets." _

_BEEP._

_"End of messages." _x-x-x-x-x


	4. Chapter 3

Ready For You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Three

A/N: Well.. perhaps my muse has actually returned to me? Wouldn't that be a shocker.

I apologize for the (extreme) shortness of this chapter--I promise promise promise that the next chapter will be longer XD

Happy Holidays!

x-x-x-x-x

_do we soon forget the things we cannot see_

The small, misshapen puddle of red against the glinting silver spoke volumes all its own. There had been pain there; tangible pain. Someone had _bled_. The heap of machinery beside it, sharp edges all around, was a clue toward the possible cause of that bleeding.. But wait. Hadn't it been intact just the night previous? Hadn't it caught word of a death sentence months before, holding it in beneath a great mirth, lording it over his head?

That was ridiculous. Message machines couldn't laugh. They were inanimate objects that had never directly hurt anyone.

Unfortunately, that innate knowledge had not presented itself in time to save the slave of mankind, and it had fallen victim to a barrage of hysteria. First, cracks had appeared. Then pieces had fallen from it. And then flesh had been torn in a weak retaliation; a weak attempt to protect itself from the humanity that had taken part in its purchase. Turned on by a parent. But soon it was out of its misery, leaving the attacker to his own.

That had been this morning, about an hour before now, and Mark had not ceased pacing since. The wound had dripped upon the floor, his shoes, and his pants for a short while before the bleeding stopped. His mind had been a mass of confusion, pain, anger, terror, and hopelessness. His mind was _still_ a mass of confusion, pain, anger, terror, and hopelessness. Any sound that came into the loft was like a beacon of light, shining brilliantly and breaking through the darkness that had descended over his mind, leaving no room for anything to come in or go out. Locked in a continuous cycle of memory, and even those sound breaks could do nothing to ease his pain.

"ROGER!?" He'd screech, clawing at his forearms in a helpless hopelessness, tripping over his own feet as he'd run yet another check on all rooms, often sent sprawling to the floor in his desperation, then flipping over, convinced that Roger, that bastard, had pushed him.. but there would be nobody there. Nothing but the space he'd inhabited moments before.

Mark Cohen did not break down.

Then what was this?

A momentary lapse in reality, that's all.

Right. 'Momentary'. 'Momentary' did not last an hour.

Was that doubt?

"SHUT UP!"

Silence.

His ragged breathing filled the emptiness of the loft, a black hole in the middle of New York City, New York, United States of America, The Earth. In, out, like a dying animal that nobody would take pity on, merely regard with a detached sadness. Such a shame, can't be helped.

Was that all he was? A dying animal? To be left alone, to die in peace, of its own accord? Yes. He was an animal no he was human! A human being!

"ROGER!" And the ritual commenced for the fifth time within the past twenty minutes, leaving Mark searching the rooms with a manic determination, certain that his friends would jump out of nowhere to pounce upon him, laughing at his recklessness.

Laughter. He heard it.

Blue eyes snapped in the direction of Roger's room once again. He'd just checked there, though! .. Wait a second.. They probably followed him in there and just avoided his eyes, like they did in movies! Yeah.. all.. all four of them. .. The four surviving.. yeah.

His grin was pathetic in its unending joy as the blonde bounded for the room he'd exited just a minute previous.

Nothing.

It was empty.

Mark's expression twisted. His teeth grinned, his lips frowned, one eye closed, before everything ended. Neutral. They weren't here.

".. Roger?"

A single note floated on the nonexistent wind.

".. Maureen?"

Giggles. Nearby. He turned.

".. Joanne?"

Silence, but that was always her way. He could feel the smile.

".. Benny?"

Again, nothing, but this time he smiled, the agitation at being cooped up with the bohemians obvious.

"Collins??"

Something was wrong. His footsteps fell heavy on the floor of the loft as he left Roger's room behind, now calm, his smile large.

"Mimi!"

His room now, waiting.

"_Angel!!_"

The closet door swung open.

"I've found you!"

x-x-x-x-x

"Hm.. that's odd. The phone at the loft is turned off."

"_What_? .. Fucking.. Benny! Call Benny!"

x-x-x-x-x


	5. Chapter 4

Ready For You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Four

A/N: Woo-hoo! This chapter will be longer and full of fun and exciting things! ... or not. .. though it will be longer. .. yes.

x-x-x-x-x

_if you're lonely in your nightmare let me in_

_"This is your captain speaking. We would like to remind you that there is _no _smoking on this flight, Seat Twenty-Eight A."_

Countless pairs of eyes turned to give him a scathing glare. The woman seated two seats down and across the aisle held her hand over her baby's lips. The child giggled and gurgled, closing its little lips over the digit and biting down toothlessly, thoroughly pleased with itself. The flight attendant standing at the end of his row with that smug look on her face was beyond infuriating. The tendril of white-grey smoke continued up before his eyes.

The captain had made an announcement just to get him to put his cigarette out? Commendable.

"I'd put it out, Roger."

Always the voice of reason, Joanne was. She'd been seated next to him earlier, but when the fasten seatbelt sign had clicked off she had immediately changed seats with Maureen--she'd been making eyes at one of the attendants. To add insult to injury, that attendant had been very, very male. Now, they'd had a talk about this, but apparently Maureen had conveniently forgotten about it in light of something new and exciting. She was much like a child in that way.

With a sigh, he bit the cancer stick between his front teeth, pulling his lips back to make for an easier grip. The cigarette had been smoked down to a nub, but he hadn't actually been taking part in the tar-lacing experience, merely holding it there for comfort. Dropping it into the complimentary glass of water that oh so kind flight attendant had provided, he felt himself giving her a very deprecating grin. Her smug expression immediately fell into one of intense dislike.

"Can I take your glass for you, _sir_?"

"No thanks. You could, however, take your foot, and shove it up--"

"_Roger_." Came the warning, in unison, from the two women seated between he and that bitch. 'Attendant' his ass. That word implied help of some sort.

"Thank-you for being so cooperative." She said through a sneer, turning away and striding defiantly up the aisle.

"And thank-you for being so fucking helpful."

"Mommy! Mommy that man said a bad word!" Came the screech from the row in front of him, and Roger wanted nothing more than to simply disappear into his jacket. He'd never liked airplanes. One, he'd never been able to afford a ticket. Two, there were too many people in too small an area. Three, who the fuck's idea was it to have a mode of transportation from which one is unable to leave, should they choose, for fear of falling thousands upon thousands of feet, most likely suffocating before experiencing the bone-crushing impact?

Roger had always been a rather morbid soul, but that was just a bit over the top, even for him.

He shifted uncomfortably.

"Stop fidgeting. You're like a child."

"I am not."

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

In the end, Maureen got the window seat, Joanne in the middle, and Roger on the aisle, subject to the stares of that wide-eyed baby girl(as he'd determined from the name 'Sarah' embroidered on a blanket it clutched in its free hand). He didn't mind this, strangely enough. It was just a stare. There was no judgement in those blue eyes of hers. He was met with judgement everywhere else he glanced, so he kept his green eyes riveted to her blue, slipping away from the solid reality surrounding them. Nothing remained but he and those blue, blue eyes.. behind black-rimmed glasses.. beneath bright blonde hair.. set in a pale face.. belonging to--

_No._

His anger flared, and he looked away from that open, innocent, questioning face, locking eyes with that same flight attendant. He'd rather meet judgement than a memory.

It was this thought that kept him sane the rest of the flight, never again looking toward the infant, though she stared at him imploringly the whole while.

x-x-x-x-x

"Benny!"

"It's good to see you three. How's California?"

"_Warm_. How can you stand this weather??"

"You're just spoiled now. You used to stand this weather all the time."

"I know." She responded with a grin, wrapping her arms around the man and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Joanne had no response--there was nothing to fear from Benny. These niceties would end as soon as Benny did _anything_ to upset her, but for now they could pretend. Pretending was nice.

"Come on, sit down. I'm sure you're dying to know why I asked you to come out here."

"Well of course we are.. but let's eat first, all right?"

And so they did. Four of the eight, even though that same 'eight' had only been once or twice within that year, whenever they were on speaking terms with their landlord. Half. Three of them lost to the living, the fourth merely lost.

None of them were mentioned, until..

"Benny! What in the world is that!?"

The man jumped slightly, a hand raising to his jaw--an imperfection on the skin, barely visible in the dim lighting. But he'd turned, and Maureen had seen it. A closed-over wound, perhaps two inches long, perhaps a week old.

Roger stared flatly at it. The type of wound looked vaguely familiar, as though he'd seen it somewhere before. As though he had gotten one of the same type in times past. He watched as the hand fell away from the other's jaw, and a sigh caused his entire form to slump.

"That's why I asked you to come out. It isn't something I wanted to discuss on the phone..." His teeth ground together as he closed his mouth, then reopened it to take a deep breath. "When you called and told me that the phone to the loft was off the hook, or off, or whatever happened to it, I took a ride over. I'd paid for the electricity three days before, so it wouldn't make sense that the phone didn't work. I opened the door, and I heard.. someone."

Maureen gasped, eternally the drama queen. Embarrassed, she leaned back in her chair, and then leaned over into Joanne, far more comfortable there as she listened. The lawyer wrapped her arm around the brunette's shoulders.

"The door was locked, which I found strange.. but whoever it was found _some_ way to get in. When I confronted this person, though.." He sighed. "They threw a _film reel_ at my head. One of the ones that Mark kept locked away in his closet."

The name caused Roger to stiffen visibly, and three pairs of eyes flickered to him.

"There's someone living there that should not be, and I don't want to go on paying for a the loft's electricity if it's going to be.. abused."

Still cheap, but it probably _was_ costing him a lot.

"I'm having it shut off this evening. This needs to be the end of it. We need to clear out everything that you want to keep, or you have to move in again. My checkbook can't handle it anymore."

There was a long silence between the four of them.

"He isn't coming back, Roger."

Green eyes slid shut as the truth he'd been keeping at bay for so long finally set in.

".. I know.. I'll go over tonight, after we get settled at the hotel."

And it was decided. He would close another chapter in his life with the final closing of the industrial door, and it would be over.

x-x-x-x-x

_"Get that camera out of my face, Mark."_

"But the camera loves you, Roger."

_"Come on, I'm not joking around."_ Laughter in the voice.

"You never were."

_"One song? All right, one song."_

"One perfect song."

_"But then you have to leave me the hell alone, all right?"_

"As long as you never leave me again."

The huddled form shook beneath the meager blanket he had wrapped around himself. Seven more blankets were laid atop a box sitting directly beside him. One for each of them..

He shivered, but didn't dare take one of the other blankets. They needed them far more than he did.

The clacking of the projector accompanied the strumming of the acoustic guitar, and together they brought a grin to Mark's lips.

Until everything stopped, and then the only thing on those lips was a bloodcurdling scream.


	6. Chapter 5

Ready for You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Five

A/N: Well, this is going well :D! Hooray! All of your reviews are much appreciated. All will be explained in due time.

x-x-x-x-x

_i won't duck and run 'cause i'm not built that way_

He pulled his jacket closer around him in a sad attempt to keep the cold from penetrating. When you'd lived in Palm Springs for the past year or two the New York cold hit you like a ton of bricks. It was so cold that it was almost _painful_. Perhaps it was not the cold that was paining him, but Roger preferred to think that it was. Made himself believe that he did not care about the reality of his last visit to the loft. Teeth clenched, he hunched his shoulders up closer to his ears, vainly trying to direct what little heat his own body produced toward his feet, which he could no longer feel. They were attached, though. Plainly in sight were his sneakers, their recency of purchase testament to the change that had come when he moved.

What would he feel when he returned? Longing? A want to return? Would he be overwhelmed by memories?

Or would he feel nothing?

The musician was almost hoping for the last item on that list. He did not want to feel anything that might make him want to stay, or return to the 'bohemian' lifestyle. He had left that behind long ago. Roger Davis now payed his bills on time, for the landlord was no longer his best friend's college roommate. .. _former_ best friend. Roger Davis now held a steady job, though he played his guitar whenever he got the chance, and wrote songs whenever the inspiration hit. He'd managed to sell one or two, actually, which had certainly helped him financially. Roger Davis now owned more than one pair of shoes, and none of them had holes the size of golf balls in them anylonger. Roger Davis now owned three suits that did not have any wrinkles or stains on them.

According to Maureen, Roger Davis had now grown up.

Depositing the few coins in his pocket in a man's open guitar case, a ghost of a smile passed over his own features. He had tried that once upon a time. He'd made five dollars for the twelve hours he'd spent in the New York winter, his fingers freezing nearly to the point of complete numbness, which, needless to say, was not helpful in the slightest. He'd finally been lured back inside with a promise of bad coffee and a script bashing, one of Mark's favorite pastimes.

His eyebrows knit together.

It was inevitable that his thought process would crawl in that direction and eventually come to rest on the pale face of his former best friend.

"Fuck."

He growled quietly, kicking at the sidewalk beneath his feet. Removing one of his hands from his pocket, cigarette clutched between two fingers, he held it tightly with his teeth as that same hand fished for his lighter. He needed that false sense of heat. He had no alcohol, and thus could no gain that semblance of warmth that it always gave drinkers, and thus had to search for another source. The cigarette, while concentrated to his mouth, provided the needed spurring that his mind needed, and he was content.

The building was slowly coming into view. Roger still marvelled at the fact he'd argued to walk when it obviously would have been so much _smarter_ to allow Joanne to drive him in their rented car, or allow Benny to drop him off on his way home, or _something_. It also would have been less expensive.. but a few coins meant nothing to him now, and that artist would need them much more than he would. He had lived that life and could sympathize.

He stepped into the building, staring up the stairs. .. One of the last times he would be making this trek, if not _the_ last. He would deal with the squatter and anything he himself might want to take back to California, and that would be the end of that.

With a sigh, he began his ascension.

x-x-x-x-x

The scream had brought no concerned neighbors to his door. They all probably feared what they may find in the uppermost loft. Perhaps someone had just been murdered. The scream had been in such a pitch that it was impossible to discern a gender simply from that sound. It had been a sound of ultimate pain--someone was experiencing something unimaginable, and they wanted nothing to do with it.

Mark had not been able to breathe. He'd screamed, screamed, and screamed until all of the air was pushed from his lungs, and it was then that he had finally collapsed, giving into his body's need for oxygen. His fingers had scraped raw against the floor, beginning to bleed as he reached the wall the images of his friends had been projected on. Nothing. Even as he dug at it, leaving red trails in his path, there was nothing. Nothing, save the occasional whimpers that tore from his throat and the pathetic, _wet_ sound of the scraping. All power was out, but he seemed to care for nothing but the fact that the light source that made his friends appear had gone out.

This, however, was not how things were working in his mind. In Mark's mind, which worked so like a movie anyway, he was battling the wall, behind which the seven of them lived. Eight, if you counted the red-headed fallen angel. Battling it, sacrificing to it, giving it his _blood_.

But still nothing. The wall was not budging, and his friends were not stepping through the sliding door, as would have been so easy, so very easy, to do.

The keening sound Mark released was inhuman, bearing strong resemblance to a child of animal birthing calling for its mother, lost. It was not so far off--he was calling for his family, after all. The only people he'd ever felt truly comfortable with. And they had disappeared.

His eyes lit up. _Of course_.

Turning, still on his knees, the blonde spotted the box of film reels. They were not on screen because they were _hiding_ from him, in there. It made so much sense!

He crawled, like a dying man would crawl toward water, reaching the box and wrapping his arms around it in as best a hug as he could manage with its angular shape and awkward build. He attempted to get to his feet, but made it only halfway before falling to the ground once more. The box, flimsy cardboard as it was, burst open. The film reels scattered, either rolling a few feet away or simply falling directly where they'd landed. Still on his hands and knees, Mark childishly moved toward the nearest one, lifting it to a readable distance.

_Roger on a Good Day_ it read, and he smiled.

"I've missed you."

x-x-x-x-x

Step by step, inch by inch. He did not want to confront his past. In his right hand he held the key so tightly it was making imprints on his palm. Turning around and running right now seemed like a very good idea, but, as it always did during times he was unsure of the situation, Collins' voice spoke up, and he found himself moving forward with a new conviction. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could move on with his life.

.. Would he be able to?

It was not a question of 'being able to or not', but rather _just doing it_. He could no longer live in the past as he had, because it had gotten him nowhere. He had accepted his disease and had made himself better for it.

"Fuck." He growled, stepping up to the door, inserting the key, sliding it open, and stepping in.

Anticlimactic as it was, he was here. He'd expected.. _something_ to happen, but there was nothing. Just the dark he knew would be there. Shuffling further into the loft, he dropped the key back into his pocket, eyes adjusting to the dark. There was soft moonlight streaming through the large windows, faintly illuminating the whole of the room.

Unfortunately, he failed to take in the entire room before stepping forward, and his foot connected with something very large. Something very large that gave a very human groan.

The squatter.

Immediately an anger flared, and he reached down, grabbing the collar of the person's shirt and hauling them into a sitting position. The form offered little resistance, flopping this way and that way, though its arms were very stiff, clutching something to its chest.

"All right, asshole. It's time you moved... on?"

The moonlight slanted through the window at such an angle that he caught the glasses, then the eyes, then the hair, and the skin, all of it upturned in a wide-eyed innocence.

And Roger just couldn't help but curling his hand into a fist and connecting it with that innocent face once, twice, three times, before throwing the man to the ground. His anger boiled up and over, spilling out, even as he was regarded with that same wide-eyed, questioning look, lips parted in such a way that it looked as though he might ask a question any moment, the lower one busted and bleeding, his left cheek beginning to swell. That question then spilled over, much as Roger's anger had, and in a tone of voice that matched his expression, he asked,

"Who are you?"

"I'm _Roger_, you fucking idiot!" He hadn't hit Mark that hard, had he?

"You can't be Roger." The confusion there could not be feigned. Gripping whatever he was holding to his chest even tighter, his fingers with knuckles completely white from the pressure, he extended... a film reel.

"_This_ is Roger."


	7. Chapter 6

Ready for You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Six

A/N: There seems to be a bit of confusion with the last chapter, and for that I apologize. I wasn't trying to convey that Roger had 'grown up', more that he realized there was nothing that could be done about the past. Which, I supposed, could be labeled as 'growing up' by some.. hm. Well whatever! Yes indeed ;

This may become Mark/Roger. It depends entirely on your responses. So.. vote? Heh.

Songs used for the past few chapters: One - Paolo by Mary Fahl, Two - Mary Jane by Alanis Morissette, Three - Happy Phantom by Tori Amos, Four - Lonely in your Nightmare by Duran Duran, Five - Duck and Run by 3 Doors Down, Six - Allegria from Cirque. I'll put the songs I use from now on because it amuses me D

x-x-x-x-x

_i see a spark of light shining_

"He won't even _look_ at me, Joanne. He just keeps babbling, but it _sounds_ like he's talking to me.. but every time I look at him he's just staring at that box!" A pause, in which Roger turned the flashlight he'd dug out of his room away from the sight before him, casting Mark back into darkness. "No.. No, he looks like he's been eating. I have no idea what, though. There's nothing here." The metallic rustling behind him caused the former rockstar to spin on his heels, bathing the filmmaker in the light once more. He seemed to take no notice and only continued searching for... something. Roger didn't want to question it. He had found that he didn't like being ignored.

"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry." Silence. "Well.. It looks like a box of his old films. You know, that one he'd always drag out at parties and stuff." He almost felt bad for all of the times they'd protested watching whatever it was he wanted to show them. If he'd known that it would eventually come to this, well.. Hadn't Mimi once said to 'forget regret'?

When your best friend had turned into a raving lunatic, and it was partially your fault, there was a _lot_ to regret.

"No.. No, I'm not leaving. I already called Benny and told him to get his ass down here. He's going to have the power and heat turned back on. He's got blankets, but they're covering the movies.."

Mark had turned to stare quizzically at him, realizing that he was being spoken about. "Who are you?" This was the fourth time he'd asked that question, but every time it sounded exactly the same--unaffected, vaguely interested, something that someone felt they should be asking even though they couldn't care less about the answer.

"Are you coming down? ... Hm, you're probably right.. yeah, tomorrow. I'm sleeping here whether he likes it or not. Bye." He shut the phone off with a sigh, setting it down on the table. A cell, courtesy of Joanne. He hated the thing, but it certainly did come in handy at times. Flopping on the couch, he gripped the bridge of his nose. A layer of dust had puffed up around him, and he sneezed.

"Bless you."

One eye popped open. "Oh, so you're actually talking to me now?"

He got a shrug in response. "Roger said you were all right, and Mimi agreed."

Great. So now he was talking good about himself. Leaning back into the couch, Roger could only shake his head in something like disbelief. In truth, he didn't know _what_ to feel. This sort of situation wasn't one that you found in movies, let alone real life. He had absolutely no idea of how to handle himself. Mark was acting like an idiot. Really, he didn't see why the other couldn't just snap back to how he used to be. .. How they both used to be.

Now he was pissing himself off. Arms crossed over his chest, the brunette sank further, slouching terribly against the back of the couch, now glaring into the darkness. The flashlight continued to shine its light on Mark, but the blonde had begun to peter out. His movements were slowing, and it was with careful hands that he began to arrange the film reels into stacks according to.. well, Roger had no idea what they were according to. Some went by size, some seemed to be arranged by color, and still other stacks had absolutely no visible pattern, teetering dangerously. The musician noted, with a deepening frown, that the reason the filmmaker was working so carefully was not only due to fatigue. His hands were a complete mess.

"What the fuck have you been _doing_?" He asked with a strained note in his voice. Roger did not do well with the sight of blood. His stomach gave an unpleasant flop. Standing, flashlight in hand, he approached the blonde, who merely stared flatly up at him, though there was a glimmer of question in his eyes.

"Jesus.." Calloused fingers wrapped around the wrist of Mark's left arm and pulled upward. The other's form returned completely to the stacks he'd now surrounded himself with, but the arm remained in the air, giving them the momentary appearance of a prisoner in final surrender, his captor staring down at him in disgust.

The disgust on Roger's face was not for Mark, but rather for the state of his hand. The tips of his fingers were completely ragged. There were badly healed cuts completely covering the hands, mostly concentrated on the sides of his hands from the base of his pinky to his wrist. The hand curled weakly in his grip, but made no attempt to remove itself.

Roger was pissed, to say the least. He didn't like seeing this, because it only assured him of the fact that the other's mind had completely fled from him. He'd been so careful about wounds after April. Any minor paper cut had been disinfected and cared for immediately. There had been a separate first aid kit for each member of the household. He felt himself begin to tremble. This was no act. Mark truly believed that those films held his friends, and he'd completely devoted himself to them. His own well-being had become less important than the comfort of these inanimate objects.

He nearly flung the pale hand away from him. It wasn't over, not even close. Holding the flashlight in his left hand he completely inspected his right, then switched them, making certain that he had no wounds. You could never be too careful.

"Get up."

No response.

"Get _up_."

Still nothing.

Gritting his teeth, Roger grabbed hold of the same wrist he'd taken hold of before and began dragging Mark toward the bathroom as best he could, eventually tucking the flashlight beneath his armpit and grabbing the other's arm with both hands. Mark was not making this easy. In fact, he was making this the exact opposite of easy. When he tried to dig the fingers of the other hand into the ground to stop himself, though, he was met with pain, and eventually his protests became solely vocal as he was pulled to the bathroom.

x-x-x-x-x

"Stop whining you pussy! You weren't ever this pathetic before!"

Slam, slam, slam.

Benjamin Coffin III paused in the threshold of the loft, not completely certain of his plan of action. Did he really want to move toward that sound willingly?

A low sound that sounded like a moan of utter distress sounded from the direction of the bathroom, and it was with great reservation that he moved toward it.

"Roger?" He called, glad that the tentative feelings raging through him weren't obvious in his voice. Unfortunately, because he'd kept it at the low volume he had, he had not been heard.

"Don't mo--OW! God damnit Mark, stop it!"

"Roger??" It was louder this time, and the stream of curses ceased.

"Benny?? Fuck, Benny, come here and _help_ me!"

Brown eyes slid around the darkness of the loft, but the path was mostly visible due to the light streaming in through the large windows. Sliding the door behind him the man walked carefully in the direction of the bathroom, where a dim light outlined the door. He heard something said in a voice that had become foreign to his ears and his breath caught in his throat. Roger hadn't been kidding.

"What the fuck is going on in there?"

"I'm trying to bandage his hands up, but I have to hold the flashlight while I'm doing it and he keeps acting like a little bitch and won't hold still."

Benny sighed inwardly. Roger only started referring to Mark as such things when he was extremely frustrated, if he remembered correctly. He must be extremely frustrated. Trying the door, he frowned deeply.

"How can I help you if the door is locked?"

"I had to lock it. He kept trying to get out."

There was a long pause.

".. So you _locked_ it from the inside."

"Yeah. He got stupid when he went insane. Hang on."

The light source directed itself more at the door, made obvious by the brightening around the cracks. He heard the telltale click, a grunt of effort, and the sound of something clattering to the ground.

"Shitfuckingmother.."

Opening the door he raised his eyebrows at the scene bathed in the dimming light of the flashlight. Roger's sneakers planted firmly on the floor, another's socked feet just an inch or two above, struggling to reach the ground.

"Pick it up pick it up! And close the door!"

Ducking he snatched up the flashlight, getting a full view as the light travelled upward. It was Mark all right, held tightly around the torso by a form hidden behind him who was bent over slightly backward to keep him lifted. His hands, crudely bandaged, were groping wildly around, sending more items clattering to the floor, though none of them had created nearly as loud a sound as the flashlight had. Benny turned, shut the door, and threw the lock. He immediately found himself slammed against aforementioned door, the shorter form of Mark Cohen having bowled into him. Feeling all of the air blow out of him, he pushed against the blonde, who was again pulled back by Roger.

"Sorry. My arms got tired. He's lost weight, but he's still heavy."

Benny waved a hand in response, catching his breath, certain that there would be a bruise all along his right side because of the force with which he'd been pushed into the door.

"How much more do you have to do?" The light was again directed on Mark's hands. Roger had done his best, sticking band-aids over the tips of most of his fingers and then wrapping medical tape around them so that the band-aids would remain in place. The rest of his hands had band-aids stuck haphazardly on the few wounds there, but they seemed mostly healed.

"Roger.. band-aids do not heal everything."

"Fuck you, Benny. Just hold the flashlight while I finish his fingers."

Benny complied, watching the struggle with an outsider's eyes. He was very strongly reminded of another period in their lives, only the roles were very violently reversed. He frowned, not liking that correlation and thus trying to push it from his mind. But it wouldn't go. The idea had already sunk its claws into his head and wasn't about to leave. He wondered, though. Just what was it that had caused Mark to go into withdrawal?

x-x-x-x-x

"So this is all he's been doing."

"Yeah. He just sits there and moves the films around. Sometimes he'll look at me, but I think he's looking at the light."

"Roger.. this is bad. No, this is beyond bad. He's not just fucking around."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here. You're upsetting them."

"You see? He talks like they're _real_. Benny, he thinks that those _things_ are us."

"I can see that."

Silence spanned for a few long minutes. Roger shifted uncomfortably at least six times, and Benny coughed once. Both of their gazes were focused completely on Mark, though it was becoming harder and harder to see him. He'd inched out of the fading beam of the flashlight, apparently not liking the way these 'strangers' were staring at him.

".. What are we going to do!? I mean, he's raving!"

"I don't know. I don't know of anything we _can_ do, other than send him to an asyl--"

"_No_."

A sigh. "Roger, they know how to deal with this, and they might actually be able to help him.

"I said _no_, Benny."

"Roger.."

"He helped me.. so I'm going to help him. And that's final."


	8. Chapter 7

Ready for You

Chapter Seven  
A/N: Sorry it's been so damn long. Just haven't had time to write :D Here be the next chapter for you!

song - The Little Things Give You Away by Linkin Park x-x-x-x-x

_the little things give you away_

'Final' was such a flexible word. Benny was certain that he would receive a call before the day was out, and on the other line would be Roger Davis, the tone of his voice the only thing admitting defeat, asking if he'd please bring his car over. Roger had spent the night previous at the loft with the shell of what had once been Mark Cohen. There was no way he'd be able to put up with it--Mark had been able to handle Roger only because there had been periods of respite in which the latter passed out or locked himself in his room.. and the filmmaker was much stronger that the musician could ever hope to be.

Benny got the call he was waiting for.

But it wasn't anything like he expected.

"Why in the hell do you sound excited?"

"Because I have an idea!"

Everytime those words were spoken something ended up worse than it had begun, so it was with great dread that Benny opened the door of his range rover and stepped in, calling Joanne and Maureen's hotel room. This would be.. interesting.

x-x-x-x-x

"It's not going to work, Roger." Maureen's voice was strained--it had been her brilliant idea that Mark would snap completely out of it upon seeing her, and she was valiantly attempting to get the blonde to just focus on her for a moment. Her hands, tipped a tantalizing red(the same shade her face was growing), had placed themselves against Mark's cheeks, and she was forcing him to look at her and only her, always catching his face when he ducked his head or pulled out of her grasp, never growing angry. There was, however, a delicate trembling around his expression, as though he could only handle so much more.. and, very likely, he was reaching his breaking point.

Roger was watching all of this with a growing sense of anger.

"It's going to be better than _your_ fucking idea!"

"Stop it, you two. Honeybear, leave him alone. We have to talk about this, and you're just upsetting him." Joanne spoke, her voice outwardly calm but with an underlying tremor. The sight of Mark had reassured her, but after observing him for a moment she began comparing herself to him--they'd been a lot alike, actually, and if someone so strong could break so easily.. what could become of herself? The thought faded as her arms enveloped the drama queen, settling back on the couch, turning to look at Roger. "Explain it again. I think I understand, but.."

"It's like when you're weaning a baby off of a bottle. We'll slowly reintroduce ourselves to him. Rather than just forcing him away from the films and pictures we'll just.. put ourselves in. You know?"

Benny was the one who spoke this time. "Roger.. that isn't going to work."

"Why the fuck won't it work? It's the same concept! We'll just memorize everything in the films and say it while it's happening and we'll just get him off that way!" He was out of breath--this stroke of brilliance had come when he saw Mark's lips moving along with the projected voices, which led him to wonder just how long he'd been here for before Benny had found him. Then again, he'd probably known everything said subconsciously. Roger cursed himself, cursed every one of them, for not caring more.

"Because. Look around. How many of us are missing?"

A heavy silence descended.

".. oh."

The businessman approached Roger, laying a hand on his shoulder and attempting a smile. "It was a good idea, Rog, but there would be huge gaps." The hand gave three pats and he moved away. "But fuck. Anything's worth a shot, now. Nothing could set him back any further than he is." This horrible truth caused Roger to wince. Unable to sit still anylonger he stood, brushing past Benny and moving for the seated figure, whom he set himself beside, silent, gaze on the screen before them. Nothing was said for many minutes, and the quiet clacking of the projector was the only sound filling the space.

Roger's eyebrows had knit together as he watched the movie, gaze never wavering, barely blinking. He couldn't risk missing any of it. Wracking his mind, he opened his mouth a number of times, then closed it, unsure of himself.

Mark never even glanced in his direction.

"Ro--"

"Shh."

Nothing drifted between the two artists. Roger strained to remember anything from the period of time he was now watching, projected on an unpleasantly stained white sheet. _Anything_ that he could connect to the present, anything that he could imitate.

There. A hand coming toward the screen, a cat-like smile behind it. His chance. Quicker than he thought possible, Roger had moved to his knees in front of Mark, trying to match the expression many times its true size going on behind him, a calloused hand raising to move toward Mark's face. It came at a measured rate, careful to gauge the blonde's reaction. It was only after his hand had actually connected with the other's glasses that there was any sort of reaction.

A laugh. An actual _laugh_.

"Get your hand out of my face, Roger."

The other three gasped collectively, and Roger's smile became genuine. Was it possible? Was he cured? Had the spell been broken?

He moved his hand.

The joy that had lit up Mark's face faded immediately, replaced by annoyed confusion.

"You're blocking them."

Roger's triumph was crushed almost instantaneously, and he merely took his seat beside the filmmaker once again, forehead against his pulled-up knees, hands threaded through brunette locks of hair, gripping tightly. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"Wait, Roger." Joanne spoke, standing and moving closer, eyes narrowed at the screen, contemplation evident in the creases of her expression. "You might actually be on to something, there.." She smiled suddenly, then stepped back to the couch, bending to murmur in her lover's ear. The performance artist was on screen at the moment, wrapped around the lawyer. They gripped hands, and Maureen stood, but remained behind the other pair.

A test.

"One.. two.. now."

"Hi Pookie." The movie Maureen and the real Maureen spoke simultaneously, and Mark grinned.

"Hi Maureen."

A squeal of joy came from the woman, and she rushed forward to again grab hold of his face. "Pookie, you remember me! You do!"

But that light of recognition had faded, and he scrambled away from her grasp, slamming none too gently into the then gaping Roger. This only startled him further, and within moments the blonde had stood and repositioned himself beside the projector, leaving a dejected Maureen and a grinning Roger.

"Well.. it's a start." Benny murmured, sounding more surprised than he'd meant to.

A start indeed.

x-x-x-x-x

It had been a fluke. Whatever that recognition had been earlier.. it had been a fluke. They'd tried. They'd tried _ridiculously_ hard to make the invalid turn to look at them, take them in for who they really were, not just the shadows of people lingering outside of his mind, interruptions to the life he was living within his head. Nothing. Then again, Maureen's speaking had been a fluke itself. A lucky guess on Roger's part that inspired Joanne to make a suggestion.

But it _had_ worked. They'd made a connection. Whatever darkness creating that barrier between Mark and reality had parted slightly, and the beacon of light that had shone through brought hope, but it quickly clouded over again, leaving them scratching at the blackness of ignorance and.. insanity? Roger hated thinking that. He hated considering the option that Mark was truly crazy and there was no bringing him back. He'd seen it! He'd seen the old Mark today, he had.. but it had been a mere glimpse upon which he'd had no time to gaze. Instead he had to look at this shell. It was not empty, no, but it was inhabited by someone else.

Roger refused to acknowledge that this was just an extreme version of Mark, but still Mark nonetheless. Every potential flaw had been exacerbated to make him into this charicature of his former self. It would have been funny, had it been merely a carnival drawing. The fact that it was real, though, made him sick to his stomach.

Where in the fuck had they gone wrong?

He knew very well where he'd gone wrong, but it had ultimately been Mark's fault. He'd left for wherever the fuck he'd gone, leaving Roger to handle the problems left behind. Collins.. His eyes closed, and he pressed two fingers to the lids, teeth gritting, trying to block out the sound of the blonde, curled up near the projector, murmuring in his sleep. A hand slipped through his hair, getting caught on a multitude of knots. Fuck. How long had it been since his last shower? He'd been focused on his friend--

With fingers stuck in his hair, Roger shot up to a sitting position, rather than the slouch he'd been occupying a moment before. Wait, "_friend_"?

Mark had left him. There was no friendship there. This was a duty. A repaying of a debt, as it were. He slouched back, glaring silently at the sleeping form. At least the power was back on, so he didn't have to worry about a freak out on Mark's part. He'd deduced that Benny's shutting off of the power had caused the wounds on Mark's hands, a few of which would never fully heal. It made sense to him, and thus he decided that that was the way it would be. Roger did not have an 'I'm right, you're wrong' complex. He merely had nobody to argue against him.

"Fuck."

It seemed appropriate. Gaze drifting to the projector, he pursed his lips, remembering the events of the day. Everyone had come over, everyone had marvelled at Mark's apparently instantaneous, miraculous recovery, they'd tried the rest of the day to emulate that event, restar...

And there it was. The reason for the childish confusion they'd been greeted with. They'd rewound and replayed over and over again, their self-quoting always a few seconds off. That had to be it. They'd been exposing him to the reality of the movie, which had not complied with his brain, thus causing a near shut-down.

"I'm beating this." He'd begun grinning, unable to help himself. "Try anything you want." Almost as though this were some sort of game. "I'm not going to lose. Not this time."

x-x-x-x-x


	9. Chapter 8

Ready for You

Chapter Eight

A/N: WOW I AM A LAZY FACE xD Unfortunately, as stated in my profile, my obsessions shift without warning.

>>; So since that last chapter I've been trying to think of what can be done with this chapter. ... and it sucks. So... whatever. I just needed to get something done.

Sorry it's short.

Wooo I turn eighteen tomorrow :D

song - Thomas by A Perfect Circle

x-x-x-x-x

_show me the way to forgive you_

Raspberry vanilla. He was going to smell like some two-cent street-walker. Maureen must have done it on purpose, because that sly grin she'd given him as she handed over the bags of toiletries and other necessities could have been for nothing else.

Bitch.

But he'd taken it, knowing that smelling like a prostitute was better than smelling as he did at that present moment. One knew that they were far gone when they began offending themselves. Raspberry vanilla bodywash and shampoo was better than nothing. He just wouldn't let Maureen near him the next time she came over. He wouldn't given her the satisfaction of catching that hideously pervasive scent.

Roger released a heavy sigh that disappeared in the steam surrounding him. It was early, probably four in the morning, and thus the hot water was all his. Anybody else who lived in this building could fuck themselves--they weren't going through anything _close_ to what he was going through, and thus he deserved the hot water. Childish? Perhaps. But it gave him a martyrish feeling, so he clung tightly to that thought and nearly scalded himself.

He'd been awake since the previous night, watching those stupid movies over and over again, trying to find any and all film where it was just he and Mark. Arguing, laughing, or just sitting in complete silence. Fuck, for all of the times he remembered telling Mark to put the god damned camera away there certainly seemed to be a shortage when he had watched a lot of the movies. Then again, he _had_ told Mark to put it away, and most of the time(if his memory served) the blonde would concede, setting the contraption down, though there had always been a sadness in his movements.

And now Roger felt that sadness. Mark had wanted to cling to the memories of their times together. Just the two of them, together, and Roger had always stopped it. What could be remembered in the snippets he'd actually allowed? Not much. There was plenty of Roger around other people, but.. just them. It was a shame.

The body wash came open with a slight pop, and the scent that filled the heated air around him. It reminded him of Angel.

Terrifying. Something that _couldn't_ be remembered in films. Something he might have forgotten completely had the smell not triggered something deep within his mind, opening the floodgates to a filmstrip of memories. Sickening. He'd been watching so many films that he was beginning to think like Mark.

Think like Mark.

Roger's eyes opened, and he allowed the water to wash away the soap, creating a sudsy mixture that slipped down the drain.

Think like Mark.

How.. _stupid_ had he been? Trying to relive everything through the movies. Trying to memorize his entire life. What good would that do? Mark would be stuck in the past, and there would be no moving forward. There would never be any progress. Roger would _die_ and Mark would still be living with him in his mind, as he was now. Sure, the films had been a good idea to get the filmmaker caught up.. but..

It would take too long.

The shampoo was scrubbed almost viciously into his hair, which he'd allowed to return to its natural brown. It was getting scraggly again, curling at the ends. His fingers caught in the tangles, but his purpose was to not smell like some unwashed truck driver, not to beautify himself. He wanted to move quickly, feeling almost as though there was only a small opening in which he could enact his plan. The shampoo was washed out, and he nearly leapt from the shower, catching himself on the counter before he went slipping all over the place.

One death had already taken place in this room. They did not need another.

Pulling his boxers on, pausing, and then pulling everything else on after them(it was nearing the end of February, and even though they had heat... he didn't want to risk being cold). The towel was draped around his shoulders, and he rushed from the bathroom.. and into the darkness. "Fucking shit!" Roger retreated back to the halo of light that the lightbulbs in the bathroom pushed through the door, allowing his eyes to adjust for a moment.

It was four in the morning. Right. Still dark outside.

So he groped along the wall, knowing that he would avoid the sleeping Mark(who had finally taken up refuge on the couch), but shuffling, knowing that there had been film reels pushed against it. He really had no urge to step on one. He didn't want any more scars.

Avoiding any sort of collision, he finally found the lightswitch.. cursing as a single lamp illuminated, its delicate light falling over the sleeping filmmaker.. and nothing more. His lips quirked downward. His search would be fruitless if he just searched around in the dark. Even if he _did_ find what he was looking for, it would do no good in the dark, and he wasn't certain he would be able to wait until the sun began to rise.

So he would wait. The space in which he could act act on his plan would extend to when he could actually see. Suddenly he was regretting leaving the shower so quickly. He hadn't used up all of the hot water. Some poor sap might turn on his shower and get in, only to have the warm water run out within seconds.

That brought a slight grin to Roger's face, and without thinking he moved toward the light, setting on the couch at Mark's feet, leaning back and closing his eyes, his exhaustion finally catching up. He wouldn't be able to do anything until morning. Best get some sleep before the filmmaker woke up...

x-x-x-x-x

And what a rude awakening it was. For Roger, at least. He'd been sleeping, leaned back against the couch, completely dead to the world, when he was violently shoved to the floor. The fall hadn't been what woke him. Rather, it was the pain that flared in his rear end upon landing on a discarded film reel.

"WHAT THE _FUCK_!?" Roger yelped through his pain, barely seeing the blonde crawling from the couch and toward the projector, shooting a scathing look his direction before settling again in that same place he'd resumed every morning after awakening, cold blue eyes locked on the sheet before him, just.. _staring_. Through streaming eyes he saw the projector turn on and enlarge the image playing on the film reel inserted. That _bastard_ had pushed him! Pushed him off of the couch and then moved back to what he did every single day of his life now. The musician stood, placing a hand against the sure-to-be-bruised area... and everything came swimming back to him.

Enough. He was getting sick and tired of watching this same act day in and day out. It was time to take control of this situation.

He moved for the other.. and shut off the projector.

The terror that Mark reacted with was almost comical. He immediately started scrabbling at the machine, and Roger could not help but roll his eyes. Pathetic. Just _pathetic_. So he left the desperate blonde to his worry, searching silently. It had to be somewhere nearby.. Even in this state, Mark would not have let it too far out of his sight. In fact, he probably would have kept it closer for that very--

There. The camera. Resting innocently atop the suitcase that Mark had brought home from.. god, from _wherever_ he'd been. It had been untouched, and was thus collecting dust. Even the camera had a thin layer covering it, giving testament to how long Mark had been involved in the films. Films shot with this very camera.

The clacking of the projector resumed.

Fine. If he was going to play it that way..

Taking the hem of his shirt, he began wiping the dust from the lenses, leaving the rest. The lenses were all that mattered. He moved to Mark, lowering himself beside the projector.. and in two distinct moves he had shoved the camera against the blonde's glasses and shut the projector off.

Nothing. No response.

He sat where he was for at least two minutes, waiting for _something_ from Mark. He'd not screamed or scrambled for the projector, which was a good sign...

But he'd done nothing else except blink. Blink behind his glasses, eyes apparently unfocused.

And then the hands had raised to slip around the camera, and he turned, watching the world through the lens... focusing.

"... Roger?"

x-x-x-x-x 


	10. Chapter 9

Ready for You

Chapter Nine

A/N: WOW. Now that I got back into writing I can't stop. XDDD

I'm eighteen!

Sorry this chapter is short again. xD; OOPSIE DAISY. But I don't know how long this story is going to go on for. FOREVER, MAYBE. ... i hope not.

Song: Spanish Doll by Poe

x-x-x-x-x

_you left me tattered and torn_

Roger swallowed a mouthful of tension that had a definite metallic taste to it.

Or perhaps it was blood.

"Fuck." The musician muttered, stepping away from the curled form, a hand placed to his bloodied lips. It seemed that cameras made wonderful weapons in the hands of distraught filmmakers who looked as though they wanted nothing more than to disappear into the wood flooring. Roger had always thought of the fetal position as something people curled into when mocking Hollywood sorrow, blatantly ignoring the fact that he'd curled into it more than once during his withdrawals. At this moment he had more to worry about than playing ignorant to his own weaknesses. He was bleeding, and his blood was like a weapon of mass destruction in and of itself. The plague to his asthmatic, anemic, possibly crazy former roommate.

He stumbled in the direction of the bathroom, calloused hands curling around the towel he'd used to dry off just a few hours before, still draped over the side of the counter, partially in the sink, nearly brushing the floor. The sink was vacated as he yanked, before leaning over and spitting, despising that the normally clear liquid had been tinted an awful red.

This bathroom needed no more blood.

The sink was turned on, drowning out the pained, confused moans from the next room.

"Fuck you!" He snarled through a mouthful of lukewarm water, which splashed through his lips and to the basin he was leaned over, his hand quickly dipping beneath the faucet and bringing another handful of water to his mouth. Cleaning out the blood, tongue gingerly running over the backs of his teeth. The bastard hadn't knocked any of them out. Lucky for him, otherwise there would be _hell_ to pay.

All right, _more_ hell to pay than he already had coming. It was quite a lot, actually, and thus adding any more might just kill him.

Which, at this moment, Roger wouldn't mind..

Stumbling. He heard a clattering that sounded like one of those piles of film reels, and green eyes rolled.

Let him be crazy for a few more minutes. Crazy was preferable to getting infected, wasn't it? Mark wouldn't mind being crazy if it meant that the hands of time didn't suddenly speed toward his demise.

The towel was ruined. Covered in disease. The brunette watched in morbid amusement as excess red slid down the drain, his lip still busted but bleeding at a much less accelerated rate, fingers brushing the forming stains. He could touch it. He could run his fingers along it, knowing full well what it held. But god forbid Mark touch it. And he meant that. Truly wished no sort of death sentence upon the blonde, despite hating him.

Or pretending to hate him.

That surge of joy he'd felt when Mark had recognized him could not have been mistaken. It was not veiled revulsion, as he was trying to make himself believe. Even his ever powerful mind could not convince the rest of him that the way he'd seized the blonde by the shoulders hand really been the preliminary action to shaking him so hard he'd lose his mind once again. It had been in a fit of happiness that he'd done so. That he'd begun pulling him closer as the camera lowered.

And it had been in a fit of panic that Mark had lifted it once again, though with far more momentum than he'd let it fall, catching Roger's chin and driving his front teeth into his bottom lip.

Well fuck. At least it was unlikely that he'd bled on the god forsaken camera. Irony would not be strong enough a word if Mark was somehow infected through his camera. That would just be God laughing at him, at them both, as he seemed to have a tendency of doing.

Roger had daydreamed quite a lot during the time he'd refused to leave the loft. He'd imagined happier places. Worse times. Imagined a Heaven he would never reach. A Heaven where he and Mark were shackled together at the ankles, wearing jester hats with bells at the end. Rubbery shackles, so whenever they'd try to run from each other they could only get so far, before being yanked backward, slammed into each other, the bells jingling merrily as a voice laughed mercilessly above them. Disembodied. The Almighty.

Court Jesters. He was a Court Jester. A fool, created for the sole amusement of higher ups.

It was just bad luck that Mark had been pulled into the diabolical situation. He could have escaped. He could have remained unshackled if he simply hadn't been sat next to the musician in a seventh grade math class. If he simply hadn't had such difficulties with the work. If they'd simply been fathered by different men. Cohen. Davis.

Too close.

The towel was rinsed as best as he could manage. There had been silence for a few minutes, but he felt no concern. Mark was still there. Mark was still trying to get his head on straight. Mark was still...

Recovering was not the right word for it.

Unfortunately for Roger, he was _not_ expecting pale arms to encircle his legs as soon as he stepped out from the bathroom. He was _not_ expecting to fall forward, dangerously close to reopening the wound that had just stopped bleeding mere seconds before. He was _not_ expecting to feel the floor connect with his knees as the arms released him, their owner realizing that being pinned beneath the falling man was not desirable.

Roger caught himself, remaining on his hands and knees for a moment.. before simply rolling over into a sitting position, staring at Mark, expression bordering on baffled fury.

"The _FUCK_ was that for!?"

Mark didn't respond. The childish intrigue he looked back with was enough to almost push Roger over that delicate edge he was balanced on. All right. Mark had just finished being crazy(maybe, if he was lucky). He should probably take things slowly. He should probably start at the beginning and explain what was going on. He should probably be sympathetic.

He probably shouldn't have reached out with both hands, wrapped his fingers around Mark's neck, and slammed his head against the wall the blonde had positioned himself against. But, hey, hindsight was twenty-twenty. And he couldn't deny that it helped release a bit of tension.

"Stop _staring_ at me like that." He snarled, still eliciting no more of a response than a pained grunt.. but at least those infuriating blue eyes had closed for a moment. The imploring look had faded and he felt slightly absolved. Pained was better than confused. It meant that some neurons were still firing in that addled mind of Mark's. Of course, the addling probably hadn't been helped when his head had met wall, but hell. Maybe the jumbling around had put things back into place?

Doubtful, but really. Roger figured that he deserved some sort of a break for all of the bullshit he'd been put through, and now was a good a time as any to be cut it.

"Roger..?"

The same tone as earlier.

Roger _really_ wanted a cigarette right about now.

"Yeah, it's me you fucktard. The real me. Not some movie." As if to illustrate his point he reached out a hand and pressed it against Mark's cheek, seeming to caress for a moment.. before lightly shoving.

He didn't like the way Mark flinched at his touch.

"... what.. are you doing here?"

"I fucking live here, if you haven't forg--"

"No. I mean... you said you weren't going to be here when I came back."

The tone was broken. Roger had trouble responding. He'd turned his head so that he could regard the filmmaker out of the corners of his eyes, feeling somehow guarded when watching the other from that position. Perhaps it was because Mark was staring at him so openly, blue eyes both visible to their fullest extent, looking Roger dead on.

Those eyes were not cold.

Roger shivered nonetheless.

"I'm surprised you remember."

No response. It was Mark's turn to shiver. Though his shaking did not cease after one relay up and down his spine. This was a marathon, reaching out to his fingertips and his toes.

"... what... _happened_.."

"I'm not surprised you don't remember." Roger muttered under his breath, impressed by his own quite unimpressive wit. One took what one could get in these situations, however, and if he found even slight pleasure in such a thing, he would focus on it and focus on it until he'd drained it of any sort of amusement.

The end came too quickly for his liking. Those normally vapid eyes were simply draining everything from him, becoming some sort of black hole that had opened up in the middle of his loft.

... _their_ loft.

Roger stood, taking the blood-stained towel with him as he moved away from Mark, escaping those haunting eyes (_Nothing remained but he and those blue, blue eyes.. behind black-rimmed glasses.. beneath bright blonde hair.. set in a pale face.. belonging to--_

No.) for at least a moment. Any respite was appreciated, no matter the duration.

"Don't touch this, all right?" He dropped the towel in the garbage bin near their front door, turning around at a deliberately slow pace. Anything to keep from seeing him, because if he saw him again he might just kill him. Might just take his guitar and bash him over the head. The forming bruise at his jaw throbbed in response.

Funny. He'd once told Mark to use his camera to spar.

It seemed he remembered that too.

Mark swallowed visibly as soon as Roger's eyes locked onto his. He'd stood sometime during the guitarist's trek across the loft, and now they remained, ying and yang(it mattered not which), Mark shadowed in the hallway, Roger bathed in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Funny, he always thought he'd be the one placed in darkness, should it come to a dichotimy like this. He'd always imagined Mark in the light. It was easier to imagine Mark with angel wings.

"... sit down, Mark. No, not there, _there_" A finger was directed at the couch, and Mark straightened from his nearly seated position. Hesitance absolutely radiated off of him as he approached the threadbare piece of furniture, sitting stiffly, awkwardly.

Roger made no move toward him.

"... What do you remember?"

The blonde said nothing for a moment, looking deep in thought, though his gaze never moved. Never flickered away from Roger. Never moved to the projector, the sheet, the stacks, the scattered film reels. Never toward the camera that lay amid this mess, his new weapon of choice. The musician had always joked that Mark would never have to worry about muggers while filming. The camera was heavy enough to fight anyone off.

He'd never expected himself to be on the receiving end of an attack.

"What do you mean, Rog?"

"My name's Roger." He bit back, acid dripping from his voice. Mark looked startled.

"... Roger."

"I mean.. what do you remember? You said you remembered me telling you I wouldn't be here when you got back."

"... and yet you're here."

"Obviously you don't remember much."

He really hated talking like this. He really hated snapping everything at Mark, unable to help himself. But it felt good. Felt good to take out his anger. More than three years of it since Mark had left and Benny had called... and a week since then. A week since he'd discovered Mark, squatting in his own loft, a shadow of his former self. A shadow that obscured everything surrounding.

"Roger.." A note of exasperation. Roger took no notice.

"Fine. Start when you left, then."

Mark stiffened visibly, looking away for the first time. In this time, Roger strode for the metal table, and simply pulled himself on it, legs swinging freely for a moment. When Mark looked back at him, however, one leg was pulled up, ankle tucked beneath the knee of the opposite leg, and he watched the blonde expectantly.

"Shit.. I'd have to write it all out to remember everything."

"As much as you remember, then."

Mark sighed heavily. "I took a bus to Oregon. Bounced around the West Coast. Lived in Nevada, Utah, California, N--"

"When did you live in California??"

"... about a year ago. Got there.. February nineteenth, if I remember correctly."

Roger was laughing. It was not a mirth-filled sound, but rather a dispelling of sounds that he could no longer hold back. His shoulders were shaking terribly, and his head had fallen forward. Calloused hands had wrapped around the edge of the table, gripping so tightly that his knuckles were going white, a frightening contrast to the tanned skin that California had bestowed on him.

"Fucking.. rubber.. shackles."

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: Sorry guys D: I'm tired. I'll write the next chapter soon, methinks. G'night! 


	11. Chapter 10

Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Ten

A/N: That last chapter did NOT turn out how I wanted it to. Oh well. No. Mark's not all better. Just somewhat better. Yes. I am answering my own question.

I'm pretty much finishing this story just to get it done. My RENT muse has since gone into.. hibernation.

D: -sads-

This is pretty much a filler chapter. Obviously this is turning slashy. Sorry to all of those who aren't happy about that. xD

Song: It's a War in There by Dar Williams

x-x-x-x-x

_you're helping me move from the inside to the outside_

Roger was gone. He'd expressed his unending hatred and slammed the door shut. The sounds of angry footsteps echoed down the rickety staircase. It was faint, but stopped entirely when the musician reached Mimi's floor.. or so Mark assumed, for when they resumed the sound continued to fade, continued until it was nothing more than a memory. Close on the door. It wouldn't be opening again. Pan one hundred and eight degrees to Mark's fa--

He awoke with a jerk, a twitch, and a silent yelp all at once.

Roger was not gone. Roger was leaning over him, expression hard.

Now he remembered. They'd sat in silence, on opposite ends of the couch, for what seemed like hours. Probably was, judging by the dimming of the light outside of the window. ... It was dark now, he realized, and the nagging feeling in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he'd not actually eaten in... well, Mark couldn't remember yesterday. Mark couldn't remember the day before. Mark remembered hearing that Collins had died, and that was the end of it. Apparently, though, plenty of time had passed between then and now. He reached up a hand to rub lightly at his face, expression twisting as he felt the more-than-stubble there.

How much time had he lost?

"... Good morning?" He questioned, inconspicuously eyeing the wound and bruising on Roger's jawline. He knew it wasn't morning--the light that illuminated the both of them was coming from the lamp beside the couch. Which was where they were presently...

Wait. When had he curled up? For he was most definitely parallel to the floor now. ... And if he wasn't perpendicular to the couch but Roger was and was looking down on him..

"Get the fuck off of my lap."

Right. That was a good plan of action. Sitting up so quickly he nearly smacked their heads together, but felt all of the blood rush out of his nonetheless, the filmmaker scooted quickly to his own end of the couch, looking away, embarrassed. Just how long had he been asleep for? How long had Roger been _glaring_ at him? And just what had woken him up?

"... Fell asleep."

"You were dreaming."

Hesitance. "Yeah, I was."

He glanced toward the musician, only to find that Roger was looking away.

"What about?"

"... don't remember."

"Bullshit."

Nothing more was said, however. That short conversation was the first they'd had since Roger had had his mini breakdown, laughing and raving about some.. 'rubber shackles'. Mark didn't understand that. In fact, he was slightly perturbed by it. And slightly perturbed that his first thought had been about Mimi.

The silence had descended. The awkward, oppressive lack of sound had returned, enveloping them in a mock embrace. Mark reached a hand up to his neck, rubbing away the imagined tendrils wrapping around it, cutting off his air supply. He'd rather not be suffocated by his own imagination. But now he was searching. Searching for something to break the silence. He didn't want to start up conversation--it would only end badly. He wanted to ask if Collins was really gone. What had happened to Benny. Where Maureen and Joanne were. What Roger had _meant_ by saying rubber shackles. But he couldn't, and he didn't want to admit that he was afraid.

So he simply stood and walked to the bathroom. It was a plausible excuse, right? Closing the door, he stared at it for a good long while. ... what would end this cold war? Was there any hope of it ever ceasing? Would they part on such terms as they had last time? .. Mark didn't want that. He had fled last time. Taking Roger's advice, perhaps. But he'd come back. Perhaps he'd waited too long. Perhaps if he had returned within a few months the hostility wouldn't have been so great.

Shuffling to the toilet, he simply reached out and flushed it, placing the lid down and taking a seat, rubbing his cheek once more. Shit, he really needed a shave. Vaguely recalling that Roger looked very clean-shaven, he stood and opened one of the cupboards. A package of disposable razors... and raspberry vanilla bodywash.

Mark said nothing, merely plucking one of the razors from its packing and straightening.

His appearance startled him.

He was pale, which was a surprise, considering he'd lived on the west coast for quite a while. His eyes looked.. haunted. His lip seemed to have been split, but had healed over, badly. And his hair.. well, Mark's hair was mussed. He'd fallen asleep on his right side, so that looked sleep-messed, but the left side.. it looked as though someone had deliberately run their fingers through it, just to make it look bad.

He must have done it without thinking about it.

So, with those thoughts out of his mind, he set about ridding his face of the unsightly hair, allowing his mind to simply stop for a few minutes.

x-x-x-x-x

Roger stared at his hands.

He wasn't certain what had possessed him to do it.

He wasn't certain why he'd run his fingers through Mark's hair instead of shoving the blonde off.

It couldn't be relief, of course. He wasn't relieved that he'd not lost another friend, after losing so many. That was ridiculous.

Roger inhaled shakily.

... his hair had been unusually soft, even after not having been properly taken care of in quite a while.

The water turned on in the bathroom, drawing his gaze, and he released the breath he'd been holding.

_Fuck._

x-x-x-x-x


	12. Chapter 11

Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Eleven

A/N: Uhhhh HI. I dunno what's going on with this story. I'm just gonna get down to writing. HECK YES WATCH ME.

(What the heck has RENT fanfiction come to?)

Song: Ombra - Cirque du Soleil

x-x-x-x-x

_over the distance slipping through our hands_

Needles. Needles and hot and cold and waves of discomfort followed by flashes of relief. Then the cold returned as the needles dissipated and the muscles flexed and spread. The feeling crept upward, reaching the point of termination and fading completely. A crack, barely audible. A breath sucked in, held, then released through his nose.

He hadn't moved his leg from beneath his knee for half an hour, if not more. It was only when he'd been unable to feel the limb from the knee down that he'd shifted, jaw clenching at the horrible feeling of his foot awakening from its slumber, returning to life, and all that other resurrection bullshit. Mark had always hated that. Always hated remaining in one place for too long where the blood was restricted from some part of his body. Funny, then, that he chose to be a filmmaker. There was always the chance that he wouldn't be moving. There was always the chance that he'd be stuck in some horribly painful position. There was always the chance that when he broke free of this position he would simply topple over. So were the risks that he took.

And that movement just now, pulling the left leg from beneath the right knee, that had been a risk. It had been a risk because he feared pulling Roger out of that fiercely concentrated state he'd dissolved into. It was a risk because those fingers might stop their strumming. It was a risk because he feared he'd never hear the unending drone of Musetta's Waltz in person again.

It was that sort of fear he'd suppressed when he'd first gone away. Those memories he'd hidden in some dark recess of his mind. He'd left behind his films, for they would only serve as reminders. Reminders of Roger's musical block, of Collins' laughter and vague teasings, of Maureen's incessant 'Look at me' attitude.. Reminders of things he, at that point, had thought he'd never see again. In fact, had planned on never seeing again.

But he'd returned, hadn't he? Come back to this..

They'd called it hell, once.

That wasn't right, though, was it? In hell you weren't surrounded by your friends. Sure, there were arguments.. fights.. _anger_, but none of them truly hated one another. None of them truly hated Benny. And how could it be hell when they'd had an Angel?

Perhaps it was Purgatory. Certainly not Heaven, but it hadn't been so horrible.

A sour note. His jaw clenched spastically in apprehension, bandaged hands gripping at the camera settled on his legs.

Tension.

"You ever going to put that thing down?"

It was a full twenty seconds before Mark responded with anything more than a noncommittal grunt.

"Yeah."

Green eyes fell on the camera, flickered upward to wide blue, then back to the six strings. Back to the balance. Back to something that made sense.

"How about right now?"

Back to Mark.

"Maybe later."

And back to the guitar.

When a discordant sound was produced, there was a reason for it. His fingers slipped. A cause and effect. If then. A hypothesis. To Roger, Mark's recession did not make sense. It did not make sense that they'd actually ventured into their previously respective bedrooms the night before, settling into a sort of disjointed rhythm(that was interrupted time and time again), and when he'd come into the living room this morning the blonde had been sitting on the couch, clutching the camera so tightly his knuckles had turned white, staring at absolutely nothing.

He'd left him there, going about his business, glancing occasionally at the prone figure. The fingers had lessened their grip, and the stiff posture he'd adopted had relaxed. The eyes were no longer unblinking.

A step further. He'd gone to his room. He'd retrieved the guitar. He'd sat on the(ir) table. He'd strummed.

Mark had leaned back into the cushions behind him and turned to watch, hands now merely pressing against the camera(only God knew if the thing still worked--it had become more of a security blanket than a working piece of machinery), tension still evident, but lessened.

That had been forty minutes ago. Mark had only just moved for the first time in thirty a few minutes before. It was as though Mark had been hypnotized until Roger had begun hitting the sour notes, distracted by the staring. He'd thought, perhaps, that returning to something that would have been 'normal' three years, six months... no. He didn't know how long Mark had been gone for to the day. In fact, he hadn't been keeping track--the blonde mumbled in his sleep.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

More silence, interspersed with random notes; a tuneless string.

"Maureen left us some stuff."

He'd been slipping others' names into their conversations in hopes of eliciting reactions.

"I'm fine."

Nothing yet.

Bringing up his fingers to rub lightly at his eyes, Roger heaved a sigh. He was tired. His sleep, that disjointed rhythm, had been disturbed at least ten times the night before. It was always the same, too. The first time had terrified him, but by the third he'd merely resigned himself to not sleeping very well.

The door would click and squeak open. A dim light thrown by the bulb in the bathroom would illuminate the shadow's feet as they shuffled just inside the doorway. There the shadow would stop, waiting. That lasted a full minute sometimes. Then the shadow would venture forward toward the foot of the bed and drop to its knees. Roger would pretend to still be asleep. A hand, like the fucking swamp creature, would rise slowly from the obscurity of the darkness and close around his ankle. The grip would be painful for a moment, as though testing for the limb's solidity and truth, and then relax.. but not disappear. Mark, for it could only be Mark, would release a sigh the size of a gale, and then move back toward the door.

_It would serve him right if I left._ was Roger's thought each and every time.

But he didn't leave.

He merely waited until the door shut again to curl up and wait for the next visit.

"Did you sleep well last night, Roger?"

_"You should know, Mark."_

... He wouldn't say that.

"Yeah."

"That's good."

.. This couldn't fucking go on the way it was.

x-x-x-x-x

"Did you buy this shampoo, Roger?"

The strange, stressed version of Mark that had been present this morning had faded as the day progressed. The camera was sitting next to the lamp between the(ir) ratty old couch and the overstuffed but worn out easy chair, momentarily forgotten, but Roger had seen the filmmaker's eyes stray toward it more than once throughout the course of the day.

Upon which he'd realized he'd been staring, and that had been more unnerving than anything.

He wouldn't admit it. He wouldn't admit the relief there. He wouldn't admit the happiness at their reunion.

He wouldn't admit that he laid awake the night previous because Mark's constant checks that Roger hadn't disappeared assured _him_ that the filmmaker hadn't been a figment of his imagination.

"Maureen did."

The wry smile that worked its way across the pale lips almost showed through the chapped, cracked lips and the bruise on his chin.

"I should have know--"

That was it.

Roger stood sharply, startling them both into a silence, though the musician was the first to break it.

"No, Mark. You shouldn't have known." Four steps forward, a half-shuffle back. "How the fuck could you have known when you haven't spoken to Maureen in over three years?" Four steps forward, a half-shuffle back. "How the fuck could you be sure that she hasn't changed?" Four steps forward, a half-shuffle back. "How the fuck can you be sure that maybe, just maybe, some of us aren't he same?" Two steps forward, a step back.

"How the fuck can you know that you didn't change us?"

Mark's shoulder blades pressed against the wall. Roger stood two steps from him, the outward picture of calm, his words angry but his tone smooth. That was more frightening than any fury could have been.

"You can't just think things will go back to the way they were, Mark. You can't just come back, go a little crazy, and then expect things to return to normal."

Two steps left, two steps right.

"April's dead. Angel's dead. Mimi's dead. _Collins_ is dead. You weren't even here for his fucking funeral, Mark. Has it ever occurred to you that you've missed out?"

Roger knew he was shaking. Roger knew that Mark was trembling. That annoyed him. It annoyed him beyond anything he could ever imagine. The incessant shivering before his eyes was _pissing him off_. A handful of shirt was grabbed, and knuckles pressed against fabric which pressed against sternum and the shoulder blades pressed further against the wall.

"You think you can make up for that in a few days? You don't want me to call anyone. They all still think you're raving. Do you even know what you _did_? No. You don't. That's another thing you've missed out on, Marky." His tone was no longer calm. It was snide, annoyed, with just a touch of anger. "We went through that together."

Roger could feel Mark's heart fluttering wildly beneath his knuckles.

"Call me when you've caught up."

Twenty minutes, two slammed doors, and a slew of curses later, Mark peered out from behind the door of his room.

He'd keep it together. Roger hadn't left for good. Roger couldn't have left for good. Roger's guitar was still sitting on the couch. Slid between two of the strings was a piece of paper. Swallowing, he stepped forward deliberately, one foot in front of the other.

A phone number.

He picked up the camera from the table, cradling it to his chest, and plucking the paper deftly away from the instrument.

Pausing, he regarded the scratched, though undeniably warm surface of the acoustic. The paper went between his lips, and his now free hand moved along the strings, creating a screechy sort of sound--nothing like the beautiful music he knew Roger was capable of. Gripping the neck, he lifted Roger's beloved--it was a promise--and moved for the phone.

He set the camera down first.

Taking the paper from between his lips, he set it beside the phone, and hauled himself up onto the(ir) table. Camera once again in his lap, guitar gripped tightly, he held the phone between his head and shoulder, dialing the number slowly, but with determination.

Two rings.

"J... Joanne? It's Mark."

x-x-x-x-x


	13. Chapter 12

Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

A/N: I'm studying for a psychology exam, but it is his own advice that we allow it to... incubate. So guess what I'm going to do.

Sorry to all of those who voted against slash. This is beginning to creep in that direction. Nothing explicit, nothing even set in stone. In fact, this chapter is still in the friendship area, so no worries there. Hoorah.

Song: Up and Gone - Hoobastank

x-x-x-x-x

_approach him slow don't be afraid to say can he come out and play_

The door creaked open, and a pair of large, warm brown eyes peered into the dimly lit room. It took the owner a moment to adjust, but she wasn't looking to look. She was looking to listen. After all, she couldn't help but be curious. Not that they couldn't hear the conversation from the other room, but she felt so.. removed from it.

"What did you expect? You were the one who left when we needed you. When Roger needed you."

Silence for a long moment. Joanne leaned against the back of the toilet, eyes shut, face directed to the ceiling. The cell phone was held loosely, comfortably, but her body expressed a certain tension. A tension at keeping herself calm.

Maureen wasn't sure she could have managed that. Maureen was almost positive that she would have started yelling at him as soon as she wrangled the phone from Joanne's hands, but luckily the lawyer had managed to keep hold of the device and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her. The drama queen had pounded until she'd realized it was futile, and then simply slid to the ground and listened, ear pressed to the door, eyes shut.

"You could have at least _called_, Mark. We thought... Well yes. For someone as reliable as you to suddenly disappear completely, you must have died."

The door opened a bit more, and the light spilling in drew Joanne's attention to her lover. A hand raised, shooing the performance artist, who responded with nothing more than a pout, as was her way. The lawyer had unlocked the bathroom door when she stepped out to see who was pounding at the door to room 517, and had apparently forgotten to lock it.

"Tell him he's an asshole."

"No, Roger. Nothing, Mark."

The musician sulked further onto the bed, disappearing into his leather jacket almost completely. Indeed, it had been Roger Davis knocking furiously at the door perhaps fifteen minutes after the initial call had come. Those first fifteen minutes had been something of a rollercoaster, it seemed to Maureen. All she heard was Joanne telling her former flame to calm down, it was okay, shh. Now, another ten minutes after Roger's arrival, they were speaking in a civil, non-hysterical sort of way.

Mark, hysterical? It didn't mesh. Those puzzle pieces didn't fit together in her mind. But then again, Mark not paying attention to her, as had been the case when they'd attempted to 'cure' him, didn't make sense either.

Stepping back, Maureen shut the door the second time that hand gesture was wiggled in her direction. Lingering in front of the bathroom, her pout deepened when the definitive 'click' came once again. No use barking up that tree. When Joanne had her mind _really_ set to something there was no swaying her, much as she'd like to sometimes. Coming to terms with the fact that she wouldn't get anything more from this place than she would anywhere else, the young woman turned and strode to the bed, taking a seat beside her former loftmate, staring at the muted television as though it held any interest. It had to, judging by the way Roger was staring at it. Then again, Roger was staring at it as though he might stand up and throw it against the wall.

"Do you hate him?"

"Shouldn't I?"

Maureen shrugged, leaning back against one of the pillows, crossing her legs in front of her. Roger remained exactly as he'd been, chin on his chest, arms crossed, the absolute picture of a denied child, only far angrier and much more threatening.

"I don't. I mean.. everyone needs their space sometimes. And maybe Mark just needed a lot more of it. The longest he'd been out of New York before was only a week. He's lived in this god forsaken state his entire life."

Roger's teeth were grinding together.

"He just left, Maureen. When we needed him. Mimi.. I can't forgive him for that. I can't forgive him for missing Collins' funeral.. His entire _death_."

The performance artist interrupted with an enormous, drawn out, melodramatic sigh.

Roger bristled terribly.

"Don't you _dare_ make it sound like it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing, Roger. I miss them both more than you believe." She was standing again, moving away from the musician, listening intently to the conversation in the bathroom for a moment.

"We don't have many pictures. Nobody liked looking at cameras.. but if this is what you really want to do.."

"But you're missing something here. Something pretty big."

"Oh yeah?"

"You did the same thing."

The silence that followed blocked out the conversation in the bathroom. There was only Roger and Maureen. There was only their locked gazes. There was nothing else.

"... That's bullshit, Maureen."

"Right. Bullshit. 'Cause you leaving after Angel died was _so_ different. You _know_ how much she meant to him."

"Mimi and I were _engaged_."

"You still left him."

"He had you guys."

"And so did you!"

"IT'S DIFFERENT!"

"_Why_?"

Roger's mouth was open. Roger's mouth was open to respond. There was a remark on the tip of his tongue.

But nothing came. There was no answer. Nothing that would be truthful.

Why was it different? Why was it different that they'd had their friends, but not each other?

"I..." A monosyllabic croak, and nothing more. The voice that had melted the hearts of young women wherever it was heard had been silenced; stripped away. Maureen was smiling, blinding white shaped by luminous red, knowing but not mocking. Honestly. For being the more emotional of the two, Roger certainly had trouble recognizing the emotions he did have.

Roger was rescued from having to respond with anything more by the door to the bathroom opening and Joanne emerging. She took in the position of the two, from Maureen standing, hands on her hips, looking triumphant, to Roger sulking on the bed, and decided any questions would be a bad idea.

"Mark's coming ove--don't you move from that spot, Roger Davis."

There was something about Joanne that the musician dared not test, and he slumped back onto the bed.

"He'll be here in forty-five minutes or so. He... wants to catch up. He wants to know what he's missed. And we're going to give him that chance."

Roger said nothing for a long moment, gaze toward the window.

"... Fine."

x-x-x-x-x


	14. Chapter 13

Ready for You

chapter Thirteen

A/N: UHM.. HOORAY.

So I realized I made a mistake in the prologue. OOPS. It was not meant to say "The first day of fall". It was simply supposed to be "in fall". SORRY FOR ANY CONFUSION.

This chapter is really short. HOORAY ME.

Song: Take Me As I Am - October Project

x-x-x-x-x

_even if you shine a light into the mirror you won't see me any clearer_

It was the Bermuda Triangle, three points opposing one another, a sea of uncertainty and mystery within the outline four figures created. Words spoken attempted valiantly to cross that void, though were lost in the emotions simply rolling off the other points in waves, leaving no hope for any of the syllables that crept forth hesitantly.

Mark had almost turned tail and simply run for it when he reached the hotel room door. In one hand he gripped his camera, and he'd had to shift the small message machine onto that arm when he'd knocked. The guitar was strapped across his back, and he was thus protected--his camera in front, Roger's acoustic covering his back. The hugs had been awkward, and not just because of what he had in his hands. Maureen seemed to take a longer moment, burying her nose into his hair, taking a long sniff, and giving a smile that would have been knowing if not for the uncertainty paralyzing her features. Joanne's hug was short, orderly, as he would have expected from the woman, but seemed nearly unwilling. It was as though they expected him to go bonkers on them once again.

He'd gotten the gist of what had happened in those few days. The musician hadn't exactly been willing to impart that knowledge to him.

They'd plugged the machine in and retreated to their respective areas. Maureen and Joanne were settled on one of the beds, shoulders to shoulder, fingers laced. Roger was against the wall near the door to the bathroom, leaning and looking decidedly moody, though most of it was a ruse. Mark had taken refuge in the comfortable-looking though unbelievable stiff arm chair, hunched forward so that his elbows were just above his knees, camera in his lap. The three corners of the triangle.

There had been silence as the messages played. It was strange--Mark remembered the first two, and his heart clenched at the third. Why couldn't he remember the one about Benny paying the church? Or about Maureen and Joanne inviting Roger to come with them? If he'd heard those.. if he'd heard those he could have tracked them down without a problem, but something had kept him..

When the messages ended he expected someone to speak. He expected Joanne to jump in and continue where they left off. He expected Maureen to add something. He expected Roger to stare moodily.

Only one of those three things were occurring, and it was most definitely not the most helpful.

The blonde shifted, cringing at the squeaking the issued from the chair, straightening slowly. His back ached from that position, but the sounds were drawing attention to him, and he really didn't want that attention. He _really_ didn't want that attention. Inhaling deeply through his nose, the filmmaker drew his camera closer to himself, so that it was resting in his arms, which were wrapped loosely around his midsection. Though the camera was small, it was concrete--it was a suitable security blanket. In truth, he wanted to press his fingers against the warm wood of the Fender, but the instrument was leaning against the wall beside its owner, and seemed to be glaring just as accusingly.

It seemed as though it was up to him to begin.

"So... how long.. after I left did Collins... did Collins d... Was Collins' funeral?" It was easier to say.

Nobody spoke for a while. Joanne seemed to be searching for an exact date in her head, Maureen was looking at her lover expectantly, Roger's eyes had dropped to the machine once more.

"... You left.. October Twenty-seventh." All eyes turned to Roger, varying degrees of surprise in them. "Collins' died February sixth. His funeral was on the eleventh. He's buried next to Angel--all of the paperwork for the plot was in one of his books." The musician inhaled deeply, shakily. "Maureen and Joanne were moving." It was just the two of them now. "Benny offered me a place to stay--he didn't want me living alone at the loft. I didn't _want_ to live alone. It was either live alone, move in with Benny and M.. Alison, or go to California. So I went to California. I got a job. I worked in a restaurant. It wasn't Santa Fe. I didn't open the restaurant. I was alone.. but I was fucking there." He swallowed. "I call the loft every two weeks. I didn't leave a message. I waited for someone to pick up. No one picked up, _Mark_. Then it was off. I think.. you pulled it out.." His voice broke. Roger was no longer leaning against the wall. He'd stepped away, turning to stare at his roommate... his friend.. his _best_ friend, who looked back unblinkingly, but not distantly. They were connecting. "It's your turn."

Mark picked up almost immediately.

"I went to Oregon. I lived in Nevada, Arizona, and California. For more than three years I just moved around the West Coast." Palm Springs... he'd lived in _Palm Springs_. Mark hadn't gone there often. In fact, he'd never been inside the city, but he'd been _so close_ more than once. Within hours of one another. "I lived in Hollywood. I tried to make a living. I couldn't." Another deep breath. "I went to Santa Fe. I pawned my camera and bought a polaroid. I took pictures. I sold them. I was there for a month." He was sitting up straight, no longer slouching, hands relaxed atop his camera. "I pawned that camera and bought mine back. I had enough for a plane ticket back to New York... so I went. I took a taxi to the loft. I'd kept my key."

There was nothing between them. Tension, but not so thick that it was choking them. Roger was the first to move, but it was to the dresser, where he started going through drawer after drawer. Neither of the women protested. It took nearly ten minutes, but after a thorough search of each drawer, the closet, and the women's suitcases, he pulled out a crumpled photograph. Roger held it delicately, eyes seemingly tracing every crease, before he turned to Mark, who wordlessly set the camera down, stood, and extended one hand.

"That's the last picture of Collins we were able to take. It... It was really sudden."

The man in the photograph had a smile large enough to rival the Cheshire Cat's. His eyes were tired. There were lines in his face that weren't caused by the rough handling of the picture. His posture was slumped, nearly defeated, but there was defiance in it even so.

Mark's hands tightened around it as the arms tightened around him, and he allowed his forehead to fall against Roger's shoulder, his glasses pushed up. It didn't matter, though, because his eyes were shut tightly.

He didn't allow tears to fall. If he'd been able to, perhaps they would have, but the lump in his throat was foreign. The burning in his eyes unusual; alien. Water was waiting just below the surface, threatening.. but the drops that felt like rain on his shoulder were his savior, and he allowed the salt to soak into his shirt even as he shook, the image of the philosopher trembling terribly.

There they stood, unmoving, accepting.

"I've.. caught up, Rog."

"Ye-eah. You have."

x-x-x-x-x


	15. Chapter 14

Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Fourteen

A/N: ... >>; -wiggles-

This chapter's gonna be pretty short. I'm sorry. XD It's pretty much filler.

Warnings: Definitely crossing over into slashy territory now. Sorry to those this upsets. You'll probably be all right through this chapter.

Song: Metropolis - Manhattan Transfer

x-x-x-x-x

_there's a stranger that's dying to show you the way_

The loft was cold. Neither had bothered to turn on the heat when they'd left during the day, and the daylight had since descended into darkness. Roger was watching the blonde from the corners of his eyes. They'd walked home--the word felt strange when applied to the loft--side by side, and Roger couldn't help but notice how tourist-like Mark was acting. Ice blue eyes had turned skyward and remained there.

Roger found this.. confusing. In the past the blonde would have walked with his head up, unlike the other natives, but never like this. He was an observer, always searching for something to film, but that couldn't be the case now, even though his camera was in his hands. But that didn't cover the extent of his confusion. Mark's posture, the way he was moving.. None of it could be occurring if he didn't have complete and utter trust in the musician walking beside him. He could easily walk into a lightpost, a trashcan, another person, or the street.

In the past the trust had been earned and soldified. It was out of character for Mark to had adapted to it so quickly when Roger still held him, metaphorically, an arm's length away. .. Perhaps he was afraid. Afraid that the blonde would disappear again.

When Mark's eyes had finally come back to watch where he was going, Roger frowned, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

"What are you doing?"

The question didn't even seem to catch him off guard. He merely looked sideways at the musician, eyes falling on the guitar for a moment, and shrugged.

"Taking it all in, I guess. It was dark when I first arrived.. and.. well, today was my first day out of the loft." Benny hadn't been so far off when he'd considered a role reversal. "I heard a song while I was.." They were still not comfortable with this subject. "About two years ago. By a jazz group. It reminded me of.. here." He laughed, a bit weakly. "I was just remembering it."

That had been the extent of their conversation as dark fell. Now back in the loft, Roger was eyeing the other with a slight frown. He'd been living on the west coast for nearly four years, and thus his wardrobe had adapted. It was March now, but still chilly, and the jacket that the other was wearing did not suit the weather.

"Aren't you cold?" Roger questioned, and this _did_ bring a look of surprise from the filmmaker, throwing the brunette into a sort of funk. So he trusted Roger not to push him into traffic, but was surprised when he asked after his well-being? That was something of a double standard, if you asked him. He set the guitar down, noticing, with some interest, that Mark crossed the room to set his camera beside the acoustic, before moving again to the door, sliding it shut and throwing the lock.

"I've just got to get used to it again." Mark finally answered, turning back to Roger for a moment. A bit of pink highlighted his still-pale cheeks, and it had likely been there since they'd stepped out of the hotel. "What about you, Roger? You've been over there for almost as long as I have."

Roger said nothing, merely removing his jacket.. followed by a sweater.. to reveal another sweater beneath. Mark laughed.

... He _laughed_.

When the laughter died away, Mark found himself eyeing the vacant expression of his loftmate. Well, it would have been vacant, if not for the brightness in his eyes and the almost smile around his lips.

That almost smile was the closest thing to approval he'd gotten from Roger since... since before he'd left. Since before Mimi had died.

Then again, he'd not been given a reason to truly laugh since before that time. There had been forced, awkward chuckles between them since their return, but laughter, smiles..? For a moment, Mark was transported back to the beginning. Back to when it was the four of them, before anything else. When they'd just started out, scrounging for money to put into this place.

But the almost smile faltered, and twisted into a deep frown. Mark never liked that expression. It always meant that Roger was thinking about something he didn't want to be thinking about, but knew it was necessary. He didn't want to delve into that just yet. They'd gotten over an enormous barrier, but were still just barely brushing one another's fingertips as they reached for one another.

"Why'd you leave?"

There. A bomb had dropped, and the following destruction separated them once again. That barrier was not something they had to climb over, but a rift. A rift over which a bridge had to be built to get them within arm's reach of one another. The materials were all available.. but Mark was holding his metaphorical hammer tentatively, hesitantly, and seemed damn close to dropping it. The silence spanned, and continued to even as Roger moved to the couch, taking a seat and leaving Mark standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. There was nothing to hide behind now. No camera, no Maureen, no Joanne... Just the two of them.

It was raw.

Mark knew he wouldn't escape from it unscathed. It would be better to get through it quickly, like removing a band-aid, rather than prolonging either of their pain. The sooner it began, the sooner it would end.

"I had to get away. I told you that back then."

"But that's not _why_."

Roger had a point, of course. A point that Mark couldn't argue with. One that caused him to glance at the door, contemplating escape, and then look back at the musician. The room, chilly before, seemed cold, and yet stuffy all at once. Why. The question was _why_ he'd left, and nothing else. .. Roger deserved an answer. A truthful answer.

".. I wanted to see what you'd found. I wanted to see why you'd gone.. and I wanted to see why you came back."

Mimi was part of Roger's pull, of course.. but it was entirely possible that Roger had been part of Mark's. The magnet that drew them back home to New York City, the city without a soul.

"I wanted to know."

The silence that followed caused him to turn away and move for his room.. but he stopped before disappearing from Roger's sight, looking back at him, taking in the furrowed brow and the downcast eyes.

"... Did you find out what you wanted to?"

"I'm back, aren't I?"

And Roger was grinning. It was toothless, and he wasn't even looking Mark in the eyes.. but it was a smile nonetheless.

For Mark, that was enough. For now.

x-x-x-x-x 


	16. Chapter 15

Ready for You

Chapter Fifteen

By The Versatile Scarf

A/N: Well, this took a while. Sorry guys. I'm in a show, so my time is very, very scarce.

song: Somewhere Else to Be - VAST

x-x-x-x-x

_take me in, i want out_

Mark wasn't crazy anymore. Roger had decided this a long while ago. Mark was perfectly capable of caring for himself. He'd gone out to Central Park with his camera and had come home grinning, blue and white scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, looking almost tight enough to choke him. It was a cold week, and Roger had thus stayed inside for most of it. Because of this Mark had set them both down on the couch.. and they'd watched what he'd filmed. It was so normal. So much like what they'd been like before. Mark had often done things like this while Roger was going through withdrawals, and afterward. He would film the most unexciting things on the streets.. but they were things that Roger hadn't been experiencing because of his reclusive behaviour.

It was almost sickeningly _the same_.

Because Mark wasn't crazy anymore.

At least, Mark wasn't crazy in ways that made it seem like he was crazy... but Roger had been watching him, perhaps more than he should have. Whenever Mark came in from filming he would actively seek out the acoustic, even if it was within Roger's room. He would set the camera beside it, and then walk back to the front door and seemingly enter again, only then acknowledging the musician's presence. It had freaked Roger out the first time, for the blonde had walked without blinking, not responding to anything being said.

And then he'd had the audacity to look confused when the former rockstar took hold of his shoulders and shook him.

It only happened once or twice a night, but Mark would still creep into his room and sit at the foot of the bed, staring. He'd gotten strangely used to it, only awakening just a bit when he felt the hand on his ankle through the blankets.

Two things that made him think that Mark was still recovering. Recovering was much better than being the raving lunatic he had been, Roger had to admit. He didn't quite like being pushed off of couches and kicked in the shins. The filmmaker's hands had healed, they'd purchased a new phone, though it wasn't really necessary. However.. if they were going to resume living here, they needed a phone.

Therein lied Roger's problem. Either he was going to return to California with Maureen and Joanne, or he was going to live here.. with Mark, who seemed to assume that everything was going to go back to the way it was. He seemed to assume that they were going to just pick up where they'd left off. And Roger didn't have the heart to bring up his predicament. Maureen and Joanne had already told him that they'd be returning within the next week or so--they were well off, but hotel rooms were damn expensive. He was welcome to come back with them... or he was welcome to stay here. There was, of course, the option of all of them moving.

Truth be hold, Roger was absolutely _terrified_ that a sudden change like that would set Mark off again. A sudden, drastic change. Jumping from coast to coast was indeed a change. In all honesty, though, Roger wanted out. He wanted to go back to the sun of California.

The issue was an underlying tenseness that spanned the course of their dinner at the life. It wasn't felt, however, because of the initial awkwardness at dealing with Benny. Just the five of them at the Life. It was here that Roger was recognized by a former band member. It was here that Mark caught up on what had gone on in their lives in an environment that didn't dictate his friendship with Roger Davis. The awkwardness at Benny's presence faded swiftly after they'd all gotten a few drinks down, and there had been three groups going their separate ways when the night was over. The women stumbled to a cab, Benny to his car (dangerous, but he didn't seem.. _too_ bad off), and the two remaining men walked together to the loft, Roger's arm slung over Mark's shoulders, laughter just flowing from them. Once home they'd collapsed in their respective beds, certain to be miserable in the morning, but _happy_.

x-x-x-x-x

No visits during the night. When Roger awoke Mark was.. gone.

Odd.

And then he'd looked at the clock.

Oh. It just happened to be two in the afternoon. That might explain it.

He'd moved to the refrigerator. A note.

'Gone filming. Thought fresh air might do me some good. Be back soon. - Mark'

Roger grinned at the familiarity of the scribbling. Anyone with an untrained eye would be unable to make heads or tails of the words. He supposed that that came with years of being around Mark. Years of dealing with that same scrawled handwriting on filmreels, 'Take your AZT' notes, and countless other things.

Once getting food down his gullet (and resisting the urge to vomit twice), Roger had settled on the couch with his guitar, feeling remarkably better. That had been when the phone rang.

He'd stood. That was out of the ordinary. But.. well, why screen?

"Yeah?"

"Roger? Hey, it's Mike. Heard you were back in town. You want to get together?"

He'd grinned. "Sure. Where at, man? I'm open."

"The Life, half an hour or so?"

He glanced at the clock. "See you then."

The phone call ended. Roger showered swiftly (avoiding what was left of the shampoo Maureen had purchased), dressed, and grabbed the piece of paper Mark had written his note on. Turning it over, he'd scrawled a response.

'Mike called. Going for a few drinks at the Life. - Roger'

And promptly put the piece of paper in his pocket and rushed out of the door.

x-x-x-x-x

It was night, judging by the darkness of his room. He'd returned home.. well, he didn't really have any idea when he'd gotten back. Obviously he must have managed to get back to the loft.. back to his room.

Apparently he'd managed to bring someone else home with him.

"Shit."

He muttered as his arms tightened around the slight form curled up next to him. ... huh. He was still clothed. That wasn't normal for bringing someone home. There was a sort of disappointment in his being at this find, but he didn't dwell on it. He'd have to likely apologize to this woman. But for now there was someone to cuddle up against. He hadn't had that since Mimi, and that had been years ago. That caused him to stiffen, and in doing so shifted his bed partner.

.. There was a distinct lack of _something_ pressing against his chest.

Very, very delicately he ran his hand up the other person's back. Yes, they were definitely facing him. It was with a slight twinge of horror that his hand traveled to their front.

This person was indeed male.

... oh shit.

... oh _SHIT_.

It was with a great hesitancy that his hand traveled upward. Edge of shirt. Soft skin. Slender neck. Smooth chin, cheeks..

_Glasses_.

Forehead.

Remnants of gel that would hold up one's hair in a front spike.

Mark was curled up next to him, absolutely dead to the world. And Roger had no fucking idea how he'd gotten there.

But he didn't move. Something within him kept him from moving. Something inside of him caused his arm to return to where it had been before, holding the filmmaker against him, but only after delicately removing the glasses and reaching behind himself to place them on the side table. Something caused his head to fall forward, nose pressed into the blonde's hair, inhaling deeply that smell of raspberry vanilla, and nearly laughing.

Instead the laughter became slight shudders, and he buried his face further to hide the tears that threatened to spill. Mark shifted, but merely curled closer, oblivious to the minuscule sobs above him.

x-x-x-x-x 


	17. Chapter 16

Ready for You

Chapter Sixteen

By The Versatile Scarf

A/N: ... -guilties- Life's been hectic >> M'sorry.

Yeah. There's M/R. Sry.

Thank the fandomsecrets community on LJ for giving me inspiration to write again.

Warnings: Slash (non-explicit) Song: I'll Find My Way Home - Jon and Vangelis

x-x-x-x-x

_and if you're asking me when i'll say it starts at the end_

The intimacy that greeted them as they passed from the land of sleeping to waking went far beyond physical gratification. The touches were clumsy, whispers against skin and cloth. One of them murmured something, though neither were quite sure which. Eyes slipped open--green saw nothing but wall, and blue were greeted with a dim blackness. Roger's chin was tickled as Mark pulled back a bit, realization hitting the both of them right between the eyes. The rockstar's arms fell away, having encircled the smaller man sometime during the night. Mark cleared his throat, nervousness evident, though Roger's expression.. Roger's expression was cool, unassuming. He'd expected anger, but got nothing more than a mildly intrigued raising of eyebrows.

Obviously, Roger was not yet fully awake. There was a shade in his red-rimmed eyes, masking the spark that had returned after years of addiction. There was a calm in his face, looking out of place. Mark was used to a danger. It wasn't something that strangers could spot in the unshaven visage of the once vibrant musician, but when one had spent so much time looking into it... In person, projected, in his mind's eye.. Mark had been able to spot the threat. It lingered around his cheekbones, mostly. Cheekbones, the area between his eyes, and the soft skin beneath his chin.

"Sleep well?" Came the voice that had once entranced countless young women. It chipped at the ice around Mark's heart, and his eyes softened, no longer holding the look akin to a deer caught in headlights. His head bowed forward once more, pressing into the soft fabric of Roger's shirt, and he inhaled. The other smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the city at night, the scent clinging desperately to the worn fabric, testament to his activities the previous evening. He smelled much as he had back in his days in the Well Hungarians, save the stench of sex. One could practically smell the diseases ravaging the insides of his groupies. There was none of that here. No dried sweat from a depraved tussle cloying his senses.

Mark smiled ruefully, expecting to be pushed away at any moment but keeping his hands tangled in the other's shirt nonetheless. If he was going, he was taking some of it with him. "You were home late."

"Yeah."

Nothing more than that. Just.. 'yeah'. The rumble he felt as vocal chords worked was comforting, and he wanted more. A simple 'yeah' didn't exactly suffice.

"Where were you?"

"The Life."

More._More_. His grip on the shirt was stretching it out past its limits. Soon it would tear.. and neither of them seemed at all concerned about it.

"What were you doing." Mark's voice had become husky, though not in an attempt to be sexy. His throat was constricting. Forming words was becoming harder and harder. Pulling back once more so that he could actually see the musician, he breathed in through his teeth, detesting the hissing sound it created and yet doing nothing it stop it.

"Mike called. Asked if I wanted to have drinks with him at the Life, so I went. I left you a note, but I guess you didn't f..."

Mark didn't really know why Roger had stopped talking. Suddenly everything seemed to be too quiet except for a loud rushing in his ears. Oh hell, he had to break this silence, but his lips wouldn't emit any sort of sound. His vocal chords had died away, leaving nothing more than wheezing noises that were caught behind his teeth and refused to go any further. There was a barrier. Something..

Oh. It was Roger's lips.

against his.

Holy shit.

x-x-x-x-x

"Well?"

Joanne's gaze was firm, inquiring, but gentle. Mark appreciated the last part, really he did, but the question was just..

"I don't have much of a choice here, do I?" The filmmaker murmured, eyes drifting to the window. New York. His home. Yes, he'd lived elsewhere, but this city was where he belonged. And now? Joanne and Maureen were telling him they were leaving. They were going back to the West Coast, and Roger was apparently going with them. Why it hadn't been mentioned before was causing him more trouble than the actual act itself. He stared back at the woman who held a steaming mug between her hands, ignoring the brunette sitting beside her.. and the one sitting beside him.

The distance he and Roger had established seemed awkward after last night; after this morning. It seemed forced. It used to be that they'd sit side by side without a second thought. Now there was an entire cushion between them, and that fucking cushion was like an ocean.

Or the distance between California and New York.

"Of course you have a choice. I mean, the loft is still here. It isn't like New York is going to disappear."

That may have been true enough. New York wouldn't just crumble to the ground.

But _Mark's_ New York would most certainly vanish. How they didn't see that baffled him. What had happened to him the last time he'd found himself alone? Had that been nothing more than a passing fancy? Oh, Mark's gone insane, tee-hee, who's looking forward to lunch? So now they were returning to California so he could go crazy again, right??

He wasn't being fair. They had a life out there, all three of them. He'd abandoned them years before, and did not deserve to expect that they'd drop everything to return to this shithole. Yes, he was their friend (or had been), but they had a home out there. Other friends, he was certain. Roots, no matter how short, had begun to form, and he wanted them to tear them out of the ground?

But it still hurt.

"When are you guys leaving?" He murmured, voice small, scared. Roger's hand gave a funny little twitch that he caught out of the corner of his eye. Had he been thinking of reaching toward his loftmate to offer comfort? Or was it early-onset palsy?

"A week from now." They'd already had this planned. Fuck, they probably already had the plane tickets back, and had arranged for a way to get from the airport back to their home. Joanne and Maureen had a house together, from what he'd heard, and Roger lived in an apartment just a few streets away. All three of them would leave New York behind again. Leave him behind ag--

Wrong, Mark.

".. where would I stay?"

"We have an extra room, Marky." Maureen now, smiling brilliantly within bright red lines. The contrast hurt his head, but he didn't look away. "It's got a bed, a dresser.. I mean, it's been a storage room, but we could find other places for that stuff." Her gaze flickered to her lover. "I mean, it would be a good reason to actua--"

"You'd stay with me."

Roger wasn't looking at him as he spoke, but it was obvious who the statement was directed at. There wasn't room for argument in that tone. He'd been silent since the conversation took this earth-shattering turn, apparently deep in thought.

"Roger..?" Joanne now, concerned, uncertain.

The musician shrugged off both of those feelings. "The apartment's big, and I'm living alone. There's a room that's empty. I mean.. except for the spiders." Another shrug as Maureen pulled a face. "But it... it's just big." The second time the word 'big' was said, Mark knew it meant 'lonely'. When Roger said 'empty', he wasn't just talking about the single room. They'd been roommates for years. It was only natural for that to resume.

but...

"All right."

Mark wanted to grab those words and shove them right back in his mouth. How could he agree so readily? He hadn't even thought it over, not really.

"I think I can pack up in a week."

Who the hell was this, talking through his mouth!?

"D'you think you'll be able to get another plane ticket? Or could I get one for a later flight?"

No, no, wait! This was his home! He'd just _left_ the west coast! What the hell was he doing going back there??

"We already bought four tickets, Mark." Maureen was smiling. It didn't hurt anymore.

What the fuck?? Was he smiling too? His cheeks felt stretched.

"Like I said before--I don't have any other choice, do I?"

"Hm.. nope!" Brightly. "You'd better stock up on sunblock."

And that was the last that was said of it.

x-x-x-x-x

"So.. California." The hand running through blonde strands of hair didn't cease. In fact, it seemed completely disconnected from its owner.

"Mm."

His eyes rolled upward, trying to catch a glimpse of the other. Nothing, of course. It was dark, and his glasses were on the bedside table.

Silence for a short while. The hand ghosted over his forehead, neck, and ears. The touch made him shiver.

"... Roger... what... what is this?"

"I don't know." Sharp, but not angry.

"Don't you think we shoul--"

"Mark, I mean this in the nicest way possible. Shut the fuck up."

So Mark shut the fuck up, closed his eyes, and waited until the hand stopped moving to turn on his side and curl up against the sleeping form. Maybe he did need to stop over analyzing things. Just not question it anymore.

But hell.. this was very different than believing Roger hated his guts.

A lot _better_, too. 


End file.
